


Fallaway

by PalenDrome (nerdherderette)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Ballroom Dancing, Bottom Harry Potter, Clubbing, Community: dracotops_harry, Digital Art, Embedded Images, Fernet NOT Ferret, Love and Dance and Fernet, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s) (referenced), Past Harry Potter/Blaise Zabini (referenced), Post-Hogwarts, Redemption, Rimming, Top Draco Malfoy, Waltzing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-12 10:31:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10488876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdherderette/pseuds/PalenDrome
Summary: Following his disastrous outing at the Ministry Ball, Harry is determined to learn how to dance. So why do his lessons with Malfoy leave him feeling like he has two left feet?[excerpt]:Blaise softened upon seeing Harry’s expression. "If you're serious, however, I know the best person for the job. The man could teach an Erumpent to pirouette. He also happens to be in town for the next ten days, which may be just enough time to whip you into tolerable shape.""I can't go through another night like tonight.  Do whatever you need to make it happen, Blaise."  Harry took a deep breath. “Please.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [birdsofshore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofshore/gifts).



> I fell in love with this brilliant prompt from the lovely [**birdsofshore**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofshore/pseuds/birdsofshore) the second I read it. Thanks to the mods for all their encouragement, generosity and support, and especially to the wonderful [**Vaysh**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh), who was kind enough to give this a once-over (including a much-appreciated Brit-pick) despite everything she already had on her plate. <33
> 
> *Fallaway Position: Man and [partner] moving backwards in Promenade Position hold (Source: waltz-dance.com)  
> *Link to the music and the English translation of the lyrics for _Lippen Schweigen_ are included in the end notes
> 
> *Artwork by [**alias-sqbr**](http://alias-sqbr.tumblr.com/) (Tumblr) (see endnotes for more information)  
>  *Lineart by [**chenria**](http://chenria.tumblr.com/) (Tumblr)  
> 

**⚜.~OIO~. ⚜**

_We dance to seduce ourselves. To fall in love with ourselves._  
_When we dance with another, we manifest the very thing we love about ourselves_  
_so that they may see it and love us too._ ~Kamand Kojouri

 

 

Sometimes life just wasn't fair.

They had worked _so hard_ to create the perfect evening. For one incredible night, his team had replicated the beauty of the Fairy Forest, surprised jaded tastebuds with offerings from London's finest pâtissiers, and provided aural gratification in a manner in which the King's Cross Sinfonietta only could. The libations flowed, and the _goût anglais_ remained effervescent and chilled. Yet a lifetime of carefully constructed unflappability couldn't prevent Blaise's sinking feeling that things were about to go pear-shaped as he watched the activity on the dance floor unfold.

 _"Merde,"_ Blaise whispered, his eyes widening as the guest of honour suddenly fell arse over tit while attempting a simple box turn.

"Sorry!" Harry grimaced, his face colouring several delightful shades of red.  The fashionistas may have been drawn to a world of extravagance in response to the privations of war, but Harry would have gladly banished the ostentatious displays to the glossy pages of _The American Charmer_ instead.  He rifled through the layers of candy-coloured charmeuse, letting out an impatient sigh as he began to untangle his feet.

A flurry of flashbulbs caused his gaze to shift. He took a deep breath, suddenly aware of the starchiness of his shirt. Of the fit of his waistcoat, which now seemed a tad too tight. Of the heat from the lights, the suffocating scent of too many perfumes, and the keen eyes of the press as they scrutinised his every move.

“Harry?”

“Er—just a minute!” Harry’s flush deepened as he leaned over the rose-coloured silk. He cast a wandless cleaning charm over the footprint as best as he could, then carefully tucked the offending material out of sight.

Blaise let out an elegant snort. He scanned the room as his handsome face smoothed into a well-practised smile.

“A brilliant woman, with impeccable taste,” he drawled, linking arms with his target. “Were you aware that we ordered the _vol-au-vents_ from _L'assistant de Danse_ on her suggestion? Less costly, yet on par with the ones from _Le Gavroche._ Speaking of whom, where is your lovely wife?”

The Minister of Magic turned; Blaise gently nudged him towards the source of the commotion.

“Auror Potter!” Harry looked up to see a smiling Kingsley Shacklebolt, accompanied by Blaise and a horde of reporters at his side. Blaise glanced down at the gown’s sullied hem and discretely fingered his wand. He cast a second cleaning charm, smoothing the wrinkled fabric back to its pristine sheen as he assisted Harry to his feet.

Kingsley clasped Harry’s hand, giving it a vigorous shake. “Fabulous job on apprehending Rookwood, Harry. Gawain informed me that the raid went cleanly and efficiently.  Impressive work, especially given Augustus’ fondness for employing a certain Unforgivable Curse,” he added with a moue.

"Thank you, Minister. Although just as much of the credit goes to Auror Weasley and the rest of the backup team. Hopefully this time, Rookwood’s trip to Azkaban will be his last.” He grimaced as the comment set off yet another round of popping flashbulbs and scratching quills.

Kingsley leaned forward. “How are you holding up, Harry? Another night, another feeding frenzy, courtesy of our friends in the press?”

“When is it ever not?” Harry remarked with a tinge of bitterness. “Although now it appears as if I’ve dragged Lavinia into the thick of things as well.”

Kingsley gave his wife an uneasy look. An uncomfortable silence settled amongst the three of them, which was finally broken by the opening strains of _Les Paeurs Valse._

“Ah!" Kingsley said delicately. "This piece happens to be an old favourite of ours. I hope you won’t mind, Harry, if I steal my wife away for this dance?”

“By all means!” Harry flushed, feeling a bit wrong-footed as Blaise smirked at the overly-enthused response. “Well, I’ll just leave you to the rest of your evening, then.” He cast one last apologetic look at the pair before scurrying off.

"You know I adore Harry, darling,” Lavinia Shacklebolt whispered once Harry was out of earshot. “But if you ever suggest that I dance with him again, you'll find yourself sleeping on the couch."

Kingsley gave her a kiss. “I would have to work my way back into both of your good graces after such a suggestion," he laughed. He proceeded to sweep her into his arms, the shutters clicking furiously behind them as the handsome couple rejoined the whirling crowd.

"Smooth, Potter. I had no idea tonight’s entertainment would be overshadowed by you making mincemeat of Lavinia's unfortunate gown. Not to mention your own leaden feet." Harry looked up from where he was surveying the selections on the dessert table. Blaise lounged against the wall, a droll expression on his face.

Harry rolled his eyes as he helped himself to a slice of the chocolate gateau. "Sod off, Zabini.” When Blaise made no effort to move, Harry waved his hand in the general direction of the crowd.

"Shouldn’t you be working? You know—relating to the public and all?" He reached over and added a brightly coloured marzipan to his plate. “If you hang around here much longer, we’re liable to end up on the front page of tomorrow’s news. You know how the _Prophet_ likes to report on my every step.”

“Or _misstep_ , as the case may be.” Blaise tutted as he eyed Harry’s rapidly filling plate. "Now, now, Potter. Just because you've outgrown your scrawny frame doesn't mean your appetite should rival Weasley's own." His eyes raked over Harry's form. "Especially now that you've become so fit. It would be a shame to have all that hard muscle go soft from too many sweets."

"Been keeping an eye on my figure, Zabini?"

Blaise snorted. "It's not like you've anything that I haven't already seen," he said, laughing as Harry waggled his brow. "But surely you have something better to do than to stand here, guarding the baked goods. Not that I'm not fabulous company, but still. You’re the wizarding world’s _Saviour_ , the Ministry’s _Auror Extraordinaire_. You should be out and about, dancing and hobnobbing with the crowd. Go charm the hoi oligoi into loosening their purse strings or, at the very least, seduce some dashing bloke into loosening his lips."

Harry looked around. The tables were lit by floating lanterns, and a thousand candles were enchanted to look like the heavens above. The music crested and swelled; it cascaded over the undercurrent of whispers and tinkling laughter as the room exploded into a riot of colour, silks and wools blurring as the couples circled the floor.

A heaviness filled Harry’s chest—the uneasy twinge of envy, coupled with a deeper desire. He never felt comfortable performing the elegant social ritual, no matter how many times he tried. He had chalked his humiliating attempt with Parvati up to inexperience, compounded by the distraction of his ill-fated crush on Cho. His later efforts with Ginny fared no better—a tangle of limbs and ill-timed movements that often left them laughing breathlessly at the awkward sight.

It had been easy to discount the waltz as a vestige of some anachronistic, pureblood tradition. But watching the way in which the dancers moved—with an unquestionable connection and affinity with their partner—Harry realized that his failures may have had less to do with an ignorance of tradition, and more with the lack of intimacy in his own life.

Emboldened by the champagne and his Gryffindor courage, Harry gave Blaise an encouraging glance.

"Want to give it a go?"

Blaise cocked a brow. "I thought we already had."

Harry gave him a sly grin. The mandated interactions between the Ministry's celebrity Auror and its liaison for Events Management eventually turned into a begrudging fondness, cemented by a shared loathing of bureaucratic red tape and a mutual predilection for fit and raffish men. When the relationship briefly turned physical, it had caught everyone by surprise, not to mention their own.

Harry picked up the floral-shaped marzipan. He turned it over, admiring the variations in its tinted glaze. As he bit into the honeyed and almond-flavoured confection, he was struck by how much Blaise had in common with the exquisite treat. There was no denying that the man was beautiful, sexy and refined. But like the dessert, no matter how much Harry consumed, he was left wanting for something _more._

"No, you prat. I meant, would you like to dance?"

Blaise looked horrified. "I'll have you know, these shoes are bespoke Italian leather. I will not have them stomped upon by your tragically incompetent feet."

"Teach me then, Blaise." Harry's voice took on a pleading tone. "You've been brought up in pureblood tradition your entire life. Teach me how to waltz before the Muggle Acceptance and Integration Dance."

"Sorry, Potter. I have neither the time nor the inclination to do so, as I am rather fond of both my footwear and my feet."

Harry groaned. “Bugger. Perhaps I should just forget about the whole thing.”

“And let down your fans, not to mention those all-important donors?!” Blaise softened upon seeing Harry’s expression. "If you're serious, however, I know the best person for the job. The man could teach an Erumpent to pirouette. He also happens to be in town for the next ten days, which may be just enough time to whip you into tolerable shape."

"I can't go through another night like tonight. Do whatever you need to make it happen, Blaise." Harry took a deep breath. “Please.”

Blaise whipped out his iPhone. Harry stared as those dark and slender fingers flew over the screen. It was still difficult for him to reconcile the enthusiasm and skill with which Blaise had adopted certain Muggle innovations, considering his derision of them in the past.

After several minutes, Blaise handed Harry a card. Harry flipped it over to reveal the address written on the back:

_**Flat 13, 26-27 Hans Crescent, Knightsbridge, London SW1X OLZ** _

"This Thursday evening at half six." Blaise leaned forward, his breath disquietingly hot against Harry’s ear. "A friendly word of advice, Potter: do try to dress nicely, and whatever you do, don't be late."

Harry smiled gratefully. He failed to notice the glint in Blaise’s eyes, or the mischief that lit up his grin.

 

**⚜.~OIIO~. ⚜**

_Fucking Blaise._

Harry stood gobsmacked in doorway of the sophisticatedly appointed flat. So much for an Auror’s instincts; he should have known better than to give a Slytherin carte blanche.

"You should learn to close your mouth, Potter. Not only is it wholly unattractive, you're liable to catch something distasteful along the way."

"Malfoy. Er..." Harry stammered, as two spots of colour stained his cheeks. Grey eyes, cool and appraising, narrowed at the sound. "I wasn't expecting _you_. I mean," Harry continued hastily at Malfoy's deepening frown. "I was expecting someone—I don't know, Muggle. Because of the mobile." His blush deepened as Malfoy raised a well-groomed brow. "And the Muggle address," Harry finished lamely.

Although Harry finally clamped his lips together, his brain was still reeling from the sight. He hadn't seen Malfoy in the five years since Malfoy'd fled Wizarding Britain, trading in the barbed looks and thinly veiled threats of his former home for a life of relative anonymity on the Continent. After a lengthy furlough from the public view, Draco’s name started to reappear in the dailies. But this time, the paper was more likely to be _The Sun_ instead of the _Prophet,_ and the speculation focused on whom the gorgeous heir was holding in his wandering sights.

 _No wonder the plonker had the pick of the litter_. Malfoy stood before him, inhabiting every inch of his six foot frame. He still carried himself with dignity, yet the years away from his father's expectations and Voldemort's oppressive demands had also managed to relax his striking features, so that he appeared less haggard and more comfortable in his own skin. Even Harry had to admit that with Malfoy's exceptional colouring, impeccable style, and powerful grace, he had grown into a stunning man. One who—aesthetically speaking, at least—was the perfect embodiment of Harry's tastes.

"Yes, well, your irreproachable powers of deduction were clearly wrong. So would you like to proceed, or does your animosity preclude ridding you of your penchant for imitating the movements of a dying Graphorn?"

_Merlin, but the man was still such an unbearable prat!_

"A wounded Mooncalf is probably more accurate," Harry replied, unable to resist the challenge in Malfoy’s tone. "But the answer to your question is yes. I can look beyond our differences, Malfoy—if you could be bothered to do the same."

The corners of Malfoy's mouth twitched as he waved Harry inside. Harry followed, trying his best not to stare at the way those long legs ate up the distance.

Or to think about how Malfoy’s rounded arse shifted oh-so-subtly under his trousers with each perfectly assured stride.

A beautiful witch rose to greet them. "This is Astoria. Daphne Greengrass' sister,” Draco clarified. “She was two years behind us at Hogwarts."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter." Astoria held out a manicured hand. The facets of a massive cushion-shaped emerald caught the light, its green colour glowing from atop a diamond-studded band.

"Ms Greengrass.” Harry furrowed his brow; he recalled hearing about Draco’s engagement to the youngest Greengrass daughter several years ago, but assumed that Draco’s less-than-subtle dalliances would have put the kibosh on any future plans.

"Actually, it's Nott, née Greengrass,” Astoria corrected with a laugh. “I hope you don’t mind that Draco enlisted my help for tonight.”

"Yes, well let's see what we are working with here, shall we?" Draco flicked his wand, spelling the piano to play the familiar three-quarter time signature of a Viennese Waltz.

Harry faced Astoria, offering her his left hand. She clasped it as he manoeuvred her into position, using his right arm to support her from behind. The music played; Harry recited his counts, his face twisting in concentration as he focused on his feet. Astoria was an exceptional dancer and a generous partner, but even she could not prevent Harry’s stiffening posture as Draco commented under his breath:

 

 _"Good Lord, Potter. You look like a lamb being brought to slaughter. There is a gorgeous witch in front of you_ ; _try to appear as if you're at least enjoying her company, won’t you?"_

_"You call that a box step? A box stomp is more like it.”_

_"Salazar! If I have to witness that disaster of a quarter turn once more, I may have to claw my bloody eyes out!"_

and:

Circe’s tits. _I’d give anything to get back those last two minutes of my life. Including spending an entire semester alone with Professor Binns._

 

Harry whirled furiously towards Draco. "You're teaching methods leave a lot to be desired, Malfoy. I came here to be instructed, not to be ridiculed!"

Malfoy met Harry’s angry look with an icy stare. "I am not here to coddle you, Potter. My job is to point out your flaws so that you may correct them."

"Well, perhaps a little less pointing and a little more correcting would be in order, then!"

"Do not take Draco's instruction too personally, Harry," Astoria whispered. "He was taught by none other than the French _prima ballerina assoluta_ Isabelle Marat. Criticism and discipline within the art of dance are in his blood."

"I can handle criticism if it's constructive, Astoria," Harry answered heatedly, ignoring Malfoy's smirk. "I just prefer it to be served with something less pointed than a silver blade."

“Who knew that the Ministry's prized Auror would be so thin-skinned?” Draco mused. He trained his wand towards the ground and traced a series of figures with its tip. _"Verdimillious Vestigium."_

"You have in front of you your basic Box," Malfoy explained as the pattern of the Box Step appeared. He stepped into the left lower corner and aligned his feet. "Your first count of three will have you moving to the left upper, then the right corners." He demonstrated, working his way along the edges. "Followed on the second count by the right lower and then the left. Remember to shift your weight after each count of three; that way, you will obtain the proper rise and fall." He advanced his feet effortlessly as he spoke. "One-two-three. One-two-three. Left-right-left; switch weights. Right-left-right; switch weights." His eyes never left Harry's as he moved along the box, his rise and fall synchronised perfectly as his steps remained faultlessly placed.

After two more repetitions, Malfoy stepped out and shrunk the box slightly to accommodate Harry's shorter stride.

"I want you to repeat this pattern until it becomes second nature. Once you're familiar with the box step, we'll add in the quarter left turns."

Harry stepped forward, trying to ignore the look of appraisal in Malfoy’s eyes and the intoxicating residue of his scent. Malfoy's charisma was inescapable, almost suffocatingly so. Harry shifted uncomfortably, growing more irritable as he moved within the confines of the drawing. When the music stopped, he discovered that his palms were sweaty, and his face strangely flushed.

If Draco noticed Harry's discomfiture, he showed no sign of it. _"Deleo Vestigium. Verdimillious Vestigium,"_ he incanted, casting both spells in quick succession. The pattern of the basic box step vanished, replaced by one which included the Left Box Turn.

"We will be repeating the box step, but this time, on the second part of the box, you will be adding a turn." Draco demonstrated but remained outside of Harry’s space, much to his relief. "Left foot forward, right foot back, left foot close. Right foot back— _little turn_ _to the left_ —foot side, right foot close."

Harry mimicked the steps as well as he could, his legs moving and turning in their proper place as Draco’s aristocratic voice droned on in his head. But there was still something forced about his patterns; his movements felt disjointed, his torso unnaturally stiff.

Malfoy stood with his arms crossed and lips pursed. Harry looked at him in frustration, pointedly keeping his eyes away from the protrusion of Draco’s lips, and the way his shirt stretched enticingly across his chest. "The problem lies with your framing,” Draco determined. “Your footwork is coming along nicely. However your body position—and by extension, your relationship with your partner—needs a substantial amount of work. Watch as I demonstrate with Astoria, and pay particular attention to my form."

For the last time that evening, Draco spelled the piano to play. Even if he had not been instructed to do so, Harry would have found it hard to look away. Draco showed breathtaking control, his arms perfectly framed, his torso arching slightly as his hips maintained contact with Astoria's own. They glided effortlessly while filling the space of the room, speaking through the language of the music as well as the way in which their bodies touched. Their dance was graceful and elegant—and one of the most achingly beautiful and intimate things Harry had ever seen.

 _"Merlin."_ The word left Harry in a slow exhale. He hadn’t realized until that moment that he had been holding his breath.

Draco's face softened. "In many ways, dancing with a partner is not unlike the tête-à-tête that occurs in a duel.” He elaborated upon seeing Harry's sceptical look. “It lies in the strength and flow of your movements. You need to be attuned to your body’s rhythms, as well as those of your partner’s and the surrounding space."

“Duelling and dancing,” Harry said slowly, pausing to give the comparison some thought. His eyes snapped up, sparkling with humour. “I’ll have to work on it. Because as it currently stands, the only thing they have in common is the tendency for my partners run the other way.”

Draco felt himself returning Harry’s smile before he could stop. It was the same pull—that burst of pure joy—that he experienced as a child when his mother would surprise him with a gift from Petit Pan. Draco stared at that impossible hair, cursing the way in which Harry's exertions had left those locks so deliciously mussed. Those incomparable eyes were even more striking when peering from behind a pair of stylish frames, and the wiry promise of adolescence had developed into a body that was broad and strong. Harry was still infuriatingly stubborn, yet he was also endearingly awkward, as if the quality of self-consciousness would somehow temper the powerful combination of his respectability, magical capabilities, and masculine good looks. It was a heady combination, one that made Draco long to slide to his knees and—

Draco frowned, disturbed by the direction of his thoughts. The entire package was unfair. Not to mention, unfairly unattainable.

"Yes. I remember what it was like to be on the receiving end of one of your curses myself," Draco said gruffly, his hand reaching towards his chest.

Harry's grin faltered, replaced by a mixture of anger and shame.

"Wow. I—uh. Listen, Draco," he sighed, scrubbing at his face. Harry glanced at the taller male, wincing at his steely gaze. "I'm really sorry. I can’t tell you how much I regret—how much I’ve regretted—what happened that night.”

"Yes, well you know what they say. _‘Of all the words of mice and men,’_ et cetera, et cetera," Draco replied bitterly.

Harry gawped. “You were about to _Crucio_ me!”

“It’s not a competition, Potter. Because if you want to debate who came out worse for the wear, I win. If you want to compare whose motives were more contemptible, I win. If you want to contemplate who was more deserving of the outcome, or who has had to live with a permanent reminder of the error of their choices, I believe that I win on those counts, too.”

Harry stared, confused by the turn of events. When he witnessed the anger which flitted over Draco’s face, he realized that they were no longer talking only about the events which took place in Myrtle’s bathroom, all those years ago.

"Why did you agree to teach me, Draco?" he asked softly.

"Maybe I’m a masochist. I’ve always fancied a bit of a challenge," Draco sneered, before turning from Harry's questioning gaze. "Plus, there’s a matter of a debt to pay."

Harry's expression hardened. "If there's anything our pasts have taught us, it's that nothing good comes of forcing someone to do something against their will. Things are only meaningful when you consider their intent. There's no debt between us, and if for some reason you still feel that there is, I absolve you of it, right now."

Draco walked towards the doors of the terrace and looked out over the moonlit night. The streets were quiet, unnaturally so.

“I don’t want your absolution, Potter,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I refuse to be beholden to anyone anymore.” He threw Harry’s words against him. “If it will appease your sense of honour, then know this: Everything that I do nowadays has a meaningful intent. That the good in my life comes from pursuing things which interest _me_. If that offends your sense of righteousness, then consider our little arrangement to be a mere amusement on my end." He remained with his shoulders squared and his back towards Harry. "Your next lesson is tomorrow. Be here promptly at half six."

"Half six," Harry echoed. "Bloody hell, Malfoy, after everything that you've brought up, is that all you have left to say?"

"Dress more appropriately next time. The rubbish manner in which you do now is a reflection of your attitude towards the dance."

Harry’s jaw clenched. "Unlike some other people, I have no need to hide behind things such as clothing to express how I feel!" He took a deep breath; the fact that he ended up with a lungful of cedarwood and vetiver made his anger bubble dangerously and threaten to spill.

Draco remained uncompromisingly silent, his fists clenched and knuckles white.

"Thank you for your help, Astoria," Harry said stiffly. "No, please don't bother," he added as she made a move to rise. He threw a furious glance in Draco's direction. "I’m sure I can find my way out. Given that everything around here seems to be designed for the easiest route of escape, yeah?”

Draco closed his eyes. He counted the breaths until Harry’s footsteps finally fell silent and the front door clicked.

"Oh, darling,” Astoria murmured. She rubbed soothing circles along Draco’s back as she thrust a generous helping of Blishen's into his trembling hands. “You've never gotten over Harry, have you? Why won’t you just tell him the truth?"

Draco took the snifter, silently cursing Theo for his lack of discretion. He tilted back the glass and drained its contents, savouring the burn of the Firewhiskey against his throat. "My dearest Astoria. I have no idea what you mean."

"Why do you fight yourself, Draco? You can't keep punishing yourself for the mistakes of your past. Five years of wallowing in self-pity while replacing your true heart’s desire with some hedonistic fantasy is quite enough, don't you think?” Her voice grew soft. “You're allowed to be happy. With all that you've accomplished in the last several years, you _deserve_ it. I believe you told me the same thing, once."

"Oh, but I do allow for my happiness,” Draco leered. “In fact, I allow it nearly every night of the week.” The lascivious grin slid off his face. “There is little to keep me here in England, save for the Manor and what little of the family business the Ministry's left. You know that I only return when these things require me to do so."

"And what about your friends, Draco? And what about Harry? Don’t give me that drivel about needing a diversion; there are plenty of ways for you to bide your time here without having to give the man dancing lessons, after all."

"You and Theo are more than welcome to visit me in Paris, along with all the rest. And despite what Potter may think, I intend to rid myself of my debt. Plus, my agreement to these lessons means accruing yet another favour from Blaise.”

"Blaise also mentioned that Harry is currently unattached. There is no denying his charms; the man just topped _Wizard Weekly’s_ ‘Most Eligible’ list for the fifth time. Perhaps if you were to stay a while longer—"

Draco flushed. "I assure you, I am not interested in some boorish Gryffindor with a hero complex,” he scoffed. “Why should I waste my time pining over the Ministry’s darling when there are so many delicious temptations to avail myself of elsewhere? No, Astoria, I have no intentions of changing my plans. By this time next week, I shall have returned to my comfortable and equable existence in France."

"Being comfortable and merely existing are poor substitutes for true happiness, Draco."

Draco felt the stirrings of a headache. "You've been hanging around Pansy too much, _darling_. I suggest we move onto another topic," he added, shutting down the line of conversation with an emphatic thump of his glass.

For the first time, Draco questioned his wisdom in accepting Blaise's request. He suddenly realised that he had been presented with not one, but two Sisyphean tasks: to teach Harry Potter to dance; and to ensure that his carefully crafted world did not get trampled on in the process.

He hoped that he wasn't truly and utterly fucked.

 

**⚜.~OIIIO~. ⚜**

_Finally._ Dealing with all the red tape and security at 10 Downing Street had left him with the beginnings of a splitting headache. Now, if he could just eat his sandwich in peace…

"Zabini!" Harry bellowed. Blaise cringed as half the lunchroom swivelled towards the furious Auror with undisguised interest.

He sighed and stared at the bits of uneaten asparagus and prosciutto peeking out from between the slices of whole wheat bread. "Potter. I'm not deaf, you know. Or at least, I wasn't." He stretched his legs under the table so they filled up the limited space.

Either the hint was too subtle, or Harry didn't care. He slammed down his tray and pulled out a chair, which screeched in protest as he swung it around.

Blaise frowned. "Personal distance, Potter," he drawled, drawing an imaginary boundary with a wave of his hand.

Harry leaned in even closer. "Perhaps when you show me some personal respect!" He suddenly deflated, letting out a sigh. "You could have told me, you know. About Malfoy."

Blaise speared his asparagus and chewed it thoughtfully. "And if I did, would you have gone?"

"Er, well. Probably not," Harry admitted.

"You wanted the best, and that's who I sent you to." Blaise hesitated. "Was it really so terrible?"

"Actually, no.” _At least, not until the end._ “Astoria Nott was there as well," he added casually. "Wasn't she engaged to Draco once?"

"Yes, well, betrothals among purebloods can occasionally be broken. If both parties are agreeable that is, or for the right price."

"Who wanted to break it?"

Blaise arched a brow. "Really, Potter, I wouldn't have taken you for a gossipmonger. Besides, the scandal it caused was splashed across the pages of the _Daily Prophet_ for weeks."

"You know I don't read that rubbish. It's hard enough reading all the nonsense they print about me."

"Oh yes," Blaise said airily. He flipped the page of his paper casually and folded it neatly in half as he began to read the caption. " _Harry Potter was seen leaving the home of a mystery man last evening. Has the handsome Auror's heart finally been tamed?"_

Harry rolled his eyes. "That was _Malfoy’s_ flat!” He hesitated. “I was just...curious, seeing that they were together last night."

 _"Hmmm_. Well, I suppose I'm not breaking any confidences, given everything that's already been written about the situation. Suffice it to say, it was very much a mutual decision. Draco was not at a place in his life to be married, and Astoria is too caring of a witch to consign herself to a marriage where love was not in the cards. It would have been terribly unfair to them both."

Harry's mouth pulled into a frown. _"Riiiight_. Because Draco was too busy shagging his way across half the Continent."

Blaise's eyes hardened. _“Salazar,_ Potter, sometimes you can be such a tosser!" He turned towards Harry and addressed him with the full force of his contempt.

"Draco _tried_. He knew he had made terrible mistakes, realised that the beliefs he had grown up with were wrong. He wanted to make amends, but there's only so many you times that you can endure people spitting in your face, or stabbing you in the back, or taking everything you once held dear and upending it on its side before you start believing that perhaps you _don't_ deserve forgiveness. That you don't deserve anything better. Because if no one believes there’s any good in you, then what else is left?

"And when you're left feeling as low down on yourself as possible, you're faced with a choice: you can either give into it and let it eat away at your insides, or find some way to escape.

"Draco just wanted to experience happiness again, however fleeting or small. He's young. There's no denying that he's absolutely gorgeous, and if he wants to have a one-off with every willing twink so he can feel desired and something other than bloody miserable, then who are you to judge?"

Harry was duly quiet. He thought about his own experiences after the war—the dissolution of his relationship with Ginny following a large amount of personal introspection and subsequent experimentation, and how the revelation of his sexual orientation to the rest of the wizarding world was made easier by the unwavering support of his friends. Even then—bolstered by an idealised, if not quite truthful image of him as their saviour—it had been difficult. He could only imagine what it must have been like for Malfoy, to have to fight prejudices on all fronts.

Harry pushed around his peas, watching them roll until they decorated the edges of his plate. He thought about Malfoy, and the guilt that lay hidden beneath his cool exterior. He imagined the difficulties Malfoy must have faced when leaving the familiarity of his home, to live in a country where he was essentially alone. He remembered his own struggles with adjusting to life after the war—with the nightmares, the senseless destruction and indescribable loss—and tried to picture what it would feel like with the added culpability of knowing you had chosen the wrong side.

He thought about Malfoy's lips—proudly curled, and his pale, silken hair. Of his lean torso and long limbs, and of the sensual confidence which belied a sorrowful heart. For a brief second, he wondered what it would take to scrub out the hurt which lay buried beneath the depths of those stormy, grey eyes.

 

**⚜.~OIVO~. ⚜**

He must have been under a _Confundus_ charm. Because there was _no way_ Harry would ever consider anything close to comforting Malfoy.

Hexing the git within an inch of his life? Definitely. Shouting a few choice words his way? Absolutely. Punching the smirk off of his stupid, flawless face?

 _That_ possibility was approaching reality with every passing second.

Harry let out a yelp as Malfoy rapped his wand sharply across his shoulders.

"Stop drooping. Lift those shoulders! Back straight!"

Harry grimaced. He raised his arms and thrust out his chest.

"No, no, no. Don't lean so far forward; your shoulders need to remain parallel with the ground. _Merlin_ , how many times do I need to tell you? If your want to look good while partnering, you'll need a tall and elegant top."

Harry snickered. "It's a good thing I like bottoming then. Ow!" he yelped, as Draco cast a well-placed stinging jinx at the seat of his pants.

"Pay attention, Potter," Draco said, looking highly unamused.

"It would be a lot easier if Astoria were here," Harry grumbled. "I feel like an idiot, holding my arms out and embracing an empty space."

"From what I've heard of your love life, you should be used to it by now," Malfoy sniggered.

"Really, Malfoy? What are you, five? And you're one to talk. Do any of your conquests ever last the night?"

Draco’s drawl was even more deliberate than usual. “Why Potter. I didn’t know you cared.”

Harry glared. "I don’t. Where is Astoria, anyway?"

Draco sighed. "She wasn't able to make it tonight. There are plenty of things that we can work on despite her absence. I've got less than a week to get you into passable shape."

He didn't think it would be wise to mention that Astoria would not be joining them for the foreseeable future. She had actually accused Draco of using her as a buffer against his adolescent infatuation, which she refused to take part in any longer. According to the bint, he needed to deal with the issue now, lest it turn into his _idée fixe_.

It was a good thing they never married. He would have hated to become a widower at the tender age of twenty-three.

Draco took a hard look at Potter—at the way his stupid jeans clung becomingly to his arse despite the fact that its cut was too loose to be fashionable and its colour too light. He scoffed at the threadbare nature of Potter’s well-worn T-shirt—although perhaps it was just the _slightest_ bit flattering in the way it showed off Potter’s thick biceps and exposed those deliciously defined abs. He had _told_ Potter to dress the part of the ballroom dancer, and the man had defied Draco’s directive, showing up for their lessons looking like some sun-kissed, well-muscled labourer off the street.

Draco grimaced and threw an extra jinx in Harry's direction, just for good measure. "Lift and hold your shape throughout the entire step! Hips forward, arms out." Draco’s lips settled into a sensual frown. “ _Salazar,_ that posture! Isolate and lift your rib cage, Potter. Never forget about the importance of having a good and strong top!”

Harry’s face reddened. Even though he knew it would irritate Malfoy, he couldn’t help letting out a muffled laugh.

Harry bit back a grin at Draco’s angry look. “I’m sorry. Come on, you have to admit it’s kind of funny.” He sighed, trying to prevent his temper from flaring. “Look, I know we’re limited on time, but I really don’t see the point of continuing without Astoria. Nothing against your teaching methods, but how am I going to learn about partnering when I don’t have an actual—well, partner?”

“Stop with the excuses, Potter. You should feel comfortable in your own movements before you take on the additional responsibility of partnering. How can you gain their trust in your lead, if you don’t have any confidence of your own?”

Harry remembered the assuredness with which Draco had led Astoria around the room. He watched in fascination as Draco’s lips curled over every word, his nostrils flaring in indignation as the early evening sun warmed the fall of his light blond hair. And were his eyes always such a mercurial shade of grey?

“Potter!”

“Hmm?” Harry’s eyes snapped back at Draco’s guiltily. “Sorry, you were saying?”

Draco let out a huff of exasperation. “I want you to add the swing and sway.”

“Er...Malfoy? We didn’t learn the swing and sway,” Harry reminded him.

“I know! That’s why we’re learning it now!” Draco looked at Harry crossly and muttered something unintelligible under his breath. “The swing and sway affects the movement of your rise and fall as well as your turns. It gives the waltz a more elegant shape.

“We’ll start with the swing. When you swing, you’re going to maintain the shape of your top.” Draco shot Harry a warning glare. “Imagine moving your center through a perpendicular arc. All the movement should come from your bottom and your hips.”

Draco rolled his eyes as Harry’s lips quivered. “When you step to the front, your hips will swing under and forward. When you step behind, your hips swing back. Watch.” Draco took a step forward then back, his hips thrusting upwards before retreating. “Now you’re going to do the same, following my movement, only in the opposite direction. So when I move forward, you’ll move back, and vice versa.”

Harry mimicked Malfoy's steps, fascinated by the way his body seemed to tease Malfoy’s, and the sensual way in which he chased his hips in return.

“Keep your head and eyes up. Never drop your lines,” Malfoy admonished. “Now we're going to add a sway. As you move to the right, tilt your upper body in the same direction; tilt left when you side step to the left. Keep your shoulders down and your head up. On three.”

Harry repeated his figures dutifully, adding in the swing and sway. Long shadows fell across the room, and in the sun’s dimming light, he became unbearably conscious of Malfoy watching his every move. Each step grew more laboured, until even the act of breathing required Harry’s concerted effort. His legs froze, yet his body thrummed with a discomfiting restlessness.

Draco’s pale brows knit together. “Why did you stop?”

“I—” The word came out as a half-croak. Harry cleared his throat and swallowed, trying again.

"I know what you said, about partnering. I understand why you might feel that way. But I know myself. I’m too used to doing things on my own.”

“All the guts and all the glory?”

Harry flushed. “It’s not that! It’s just that I’m not used to having that—” Harry halted, substituting out the word _intimacy_ “—that type of _communication_ with another person. And I think that the only way I can develop it is to put it into actual practice. So since Astoria isn’t here, perhaps we should just call it a day.”

Harry realized that challenging Draco was a mistake. Draco’s face hardened, the slope of his jaw somehow squaring as his eyes took on a wicked glint.

“Who's the one looking to escape now, Potter? I told you before that I didn’t want any more excuses. I refuse to let you waste my time, just so you may fail." He stalked towards Harry; Harry took a deep breath as Draco pressed the entire length of his body into Harry’s space. "We'll play it your way, then. You want to know what it’s like to have a proper partner? To by led by one who can draw out your very best?” Draco was inches away from his face—so close that Harry could smell the soap on his skin, those crisp, citrusy notes of bergamot growing darker and more sensual as it gave way to the labdanum and earthy vetiver underneath.

“ _Nothing_ compares to the beauty that transpires when two people find their perfect match. When they are able to communicate, not through words, but through the language of their bodies. When they hit upon that magical balance between give and take. When they know each other so innately, that they can intuit what the other needs, perhaps even before they know themselves."

Draco spelled on the music. “Let's dance.”

Harry’s breath hitched as he reached to pull Draco near.

“No,” Draco corrected. _“I_ will lead. Forget your Gryffindor sensibilities. Let someone else assume the responsibility, for once. Feel the music. Give in to that physical and emotional connection, so that you may uncover the true meaning behind the waltz.” Draco removed Harry’s hand and repositioned it on his bicep. His right arm encircled Harry’s side as he bridged the distance by connecting at their hips. “Maintain the shape of your torso. Keep it lifted and separated,” he reminded Harry as they started to dance.

Harry could feel the pressure from Draco’s hips as his long legs carried them throughout the room. He found himself shifting his weight to match Draco’s strong frame; Draco's position was powerful enough to control and sustain them both. Unfortunately, their close proximity also meant that Draco’s right thigh was frequently situated between Harry’s legs, which led to an unfortunate—and increasingly discernable—rush of blood towards his groin.

“Roll through your feet,” Draco instructed as he took them through their steps, never breaking his stride. “You’re going to add the swing for the first three figures; after that, I want you to also add in the sway.”

It quickly became an agonizing game in which Harry was divided between following Malfoy’s lead and withholding his body’s traitorous response. Even the way Malfoy was barking out orders took on a new meaning. Harry felt his anxiety creeping up within him as he fought to keep track of the growing components to the dance. He tried not be distracted by the weight of Draco’s hand on his back, or the pressure of Draco’s hip against his side, or the way in which Draco’s trousers slid against the denim of his jeans. By the completion of the third count, Harry's heart was fluttering faster and more erratically than the wings of a Golden Snidget.

“Three,” Draco breathed. “Okay, now get ready to add the sway.”

Harry tilted his body to the side, and promptly encountered the forward movement of Draco’s hips.

 _Fuck,_ he thought as Draco’s eyes widened. He was supposed to swing, _then_ sway. He tried to correct his mistake by swinging his hips forward, but Draco had already started to sway. The timing of their unsynchronized movements had the unfortunate—but hardly unpleasant—consequence of dragging Harry's swollen cock against the pressure from Draco’s hip.

His face burned. Harry felt his entire body reacting as he jerked from Malfoy’s grasp.

“I didn’t say you could stop!” Draco said, oblivious to Harry’s distress.

“I can’t! It’s too much; I have enough problems concentrating on these blasted moves, without having to worry about what the person in front of me is doing!”

Draco growled. “You’re not supposed to worry about what your partner is doing! The way you relate to one another should feel as natural as breathing!” Draco ran his hands angrily through his hair. Harry shouldn’t have to _think_ about the moves; they should flow from him instinctively. It was akin to the way he could always pull up at exactly the right moment from a Wronski feint, or cast just the right spell in the heat of a duel. He shouldn’t be thinking of and fighting for control; he needed to let go and _trust_.

“I’m a lost cause, aren’t I?” Harry sighed.

"Come now, Potter. You saved the world from a deranged, megalomaniacal madman. Are you really going to come undone from a centuries-old dance?” A sly look suddenly crossed Draco's face.

"Come with me,” he said, gripping Harry’s arm.

"Wait—where are we going?"

"It’s Friday night, Potter. We're going out."

 

**.~ ⚜~.**

_Merlin_ , how was it possible for one man to have so many clothes?

“Oi! Watch it, Malfoy!” Harry said as two shirts sailed by, narrowly missing his face. He turned towards Malfoy, but any further protest was quelled by the pair of black leather pants which Malfoy now held in his hands.

“Hmmm,” Draco said thoughtfully as he nixed the garment. “Perhaps tomorrow night...”

“Uh, Malfoy? Where _exactly_ are we going?”

 _“Out,_ Potter.”

“Yes, but _where?”_

“Where you would expect two single and devastatingly stylish wizards—well, make that one—to be spending their Friday night. I hope you’re well-stocked on hangover potions, by the way,” Draco added with a devilish grin.

“Well you might as well put on those pants.” Harry longed to caress the leather, then shifted when he imagined how the buttery material would look encasing Draco’s skin. “Because at the rate you’re going, it will be a miracle if we make it out by tomorrow night.”

Draco made a _tsking_ sound. “Don’t be silly, Potter. Haven’t you heard the expression _‘Clothes make the man?’_ Besides, I’m busy picking out outfits for two.”

Harry looked down at his clothing. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“You can’t be serious.” Draco approached Harry, holding up a several shirts before settling on a charcoal grey button-down. “It’s bad enough that you showed up for your lesson dressed like that. We’re not going out for after-work pints at the Leaky.”

“Hey!” Harry yelled as Draco Vanished his top. “I liked that shirt,” he groused.

Draco gave him a frustrated look. “Combed black cotton looks entirely unattractive under black light. Put this on.” He held out the button-down, feeling mildly disappointed once the tailored fabric covered Harry’s golden skin. _“Ahh,_ much better,” Draco said as he spelled the shirt to an impeccable fit.

Harry suppressed a shiver as he felt Draco’s magic wash over him. It was cool and sophisticated, yet as mysterious as the man himself. He felt oddly disappointed as it began to fade, then nearly sighed with pleasure as Draco repeated the process, transfiguring Harry’s jeans into something darker and unusually tight.

“Acceptable,” Draco remarked, eyeing his work appreciatively. He glanced at the jacket Harry held in his hands. “Let me see it on you, Potter.”

Harry slipped it on. The leather was supple and the edges slightly worn, lending the otherwise sharp lines a comfortable and lived-in look. The nickel zipper and burnished studs added character without appearing overly gaudy. More than anything, it looked so very _Harry_ —original yet unassuming, and so fitting as to be irreplaceable.

Draco fingered his wand lazily, debating whether to add a quilted detail to the jacket’s shoulders or to lengthen its hem. It wasn’t until he saw the ruby flare that he registered the downward movement of Harry’s hand. Before he could react, Draco's wand was already in the other man’s grasp.

"Really? A wandless _Expelliarmus_ , Potter?" Draco’s eyes darkened as he held his breath. The air thrummed with the potency of Harry's magic, prickling his skin. It was frightening in its intensity.

It was also exceedingly hot.

“Not the jacket, Draco.”

Draco couldn’t help the flare of arousal which arose at the warning in Harry’s tone. Not trusting the steadiness of his voice, he shrugged before turning back to the wardrobe and stripping off his clothes. He was nearly completely starkers by the time he had bent over, rummaging in furthest corner to retrieve several shirts. “What do you think, Potter?” he asked once his heart had settled down to a more normal rate. “The indigo or the Prussian blue?” He held up the garments behind him expectantly, only to be met with silence in return.

Draco whirled around in irritation. His annoyance faded however once he saw the appreciative look on Harry’s face. Harry was not ignoring him—quite the opposite, in fact.

Harry shook his head, his eyes lifting sheepishly from where they had been trained on Draco’s arse. “Erm—what?”

Draco stepped forward, his lips curling and voice lowering to a purr as he angled his hips. “Well, what do you think? This? Or this?” He brought up each shirt against his chest, dragging the dark fabric along his milky white skin. Potter’s eyes followed their movements fanatically as his skin coloured to a dull flush.

“Er...” Harry swallowed. “They’re both good. I mean, they look the same. I mean, they look equally as good, whichever one you choose.” His blush deepened, lovely underneath his tan. “Be right back,” he squeaked.

“Well, that wasn’t much help,” Draco sniffed, secretly pleased at Harry’s flustered response. He ended up choosing the Prussian blue, matching it with a pair of charcoal jeans which slung low at the hips and were incredibly effective in highlighting his perky arse. Next, he pulled on his boots, admiring the way they further lengthened the already long lines of his legs. “Perfect,” he determined with a self-satisfied grin.

Draco was sitting in front of his dressing table when Potter returned. The Auror’s skin had lost some of it’s unnaturally pink tinge, but there was a tell-tale dampness to his hair that suggested that the man may have given his face a cold dunking or two. “Almost done,” Draco announced. He turned back towards the mirror, picked up a pencil, and began outlining the outer corner of his eye.

Harry watched as Draco rimmed his eyes with kohl. His finger swiped around the edges expertly, smudging the lines framed by his pale lashes. It was a startling contrast, to see those long strands of wheat fluttering against a smoky, sooty backdrop. Given Draco’s delicate features, the makeup could almost be considered effeminate. But Draco wore it with such confidence that it only served to highlight his sensuality and grace.

Draco glanced up at Harry from beneath his fringe, catching his stare. “I could do the same for you, you know. Bring out that signature green.” He came closer and raised his hand towards Harry’s face. His stormy eyes flashed with something deeper, and the heat of his breath caused the hairs to stand up on the back of Harry’s neck.

Harry stepped back, batting Draco’s arm away. They both stilled as Draco’s sleeve slid down his forearm, exposing the ugly, faded outline which marred his flesh.

“Too _outré_ for you?” Draco sneered, snatching his hand back. He startled as Harry reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Does it ever hurt?” Harry asked. He stared at the faded image, his fingers digging uncomfortably into Draco’s skin.

“Not on the outside.” Draco looked into Harry’s eyes, their emerald colour swirling with something darker and enigmatic. It was amazing, how one could get lost in the depths of all that green...

Harry loosened his grip, turning Draco’s arm over and tracing the outline of the Dark Mark. Draco stilled, feeling the heat of Harry’s fingers as they ran over the tainted flesh. The air crackled, uneasy and erratic and heavy; it was both a relief and a disappointment when Harry finally let him go.

“One more thing,” Draco whispered, desperate for one last touch. He wet his lips, then reached up to rake his fingers through Harry’s hair. He watched as Harry leaned into his touch, his eyes half-lidded, as if in anticipation of something more.

Draco allowed himself the luxury of a few more strokes. “There. Expertly tousled—or some semblance of it, anyway.” He gave Harry a small smile. “It’s the best that I can manage, given the impossibility that is your hair.”

Harry made a soft sound. “Do I look okay?” he asked.

Draco felt an ache well up inside of him, the resurgence of a desire he had long suppressed. It was a dangerous path, and one which was assured to have an unhappy end.

He pushed down his feelings, swallowing the words he wanted to say, and settled for a simple nod instead.

 

**.~ ⚜~.**

It was only half ten, but the club was already crowded with plenty of Muggles who were looking ahead to a carefree and licentious start to their weekend.

“What do you want?” Malfoy yelled over the thudding bass.

“A blonde,” Harry answered automatically. “A pale ale,” he clarified, reddening at Malfoy’s laugh.

Malfoy sidled up the bar, pushing his way through the swell of the crowd. He spied his prey—tall, dark and gorgeous. He leaned forward and wet his lips, settling them into a seductive pout.

“Hey, Draco. Your usual?”

“I’ll have a Toronto for now, Jasper. Also, would you happen to have any pumpkin butter on hand?”

“For you, anything.” A puzzled look crossed over the bartender’s face. “A bit of an interesting request.”

“It’s not for me. Mix it with some Cointreau and Bass?”

Draco paid for the drinks, making sure to leave Jasper a generous tip. The club was busier than usual, and he needed to make sure that the libations were readily on hand.

He placed the cocktails on the table, deliberately brushing against Harry as he made his way into the narrow booth. Harry looked down at darkly coloured drink suspiciously.

“This isn’t what I ordered.”

“I’m well aware. See that?” Draco asked, pointing to the dance floor. Harry watched as a swell of writhing bodies danced to the pounding beat. “I need to get you out there.”

Harry laughed. “Good luck with that. I don’t dance.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You _didn’t_ dance. You do now, or have you forgotten the whole reason why you sought my services?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I’m starting to wonder if _you’ve_ forgotten. I don’t see how getting me dressed up like this—” he shifted, adjusting himself against the tightness of his jeans “and doing _that_ —” he pointed to a couple grinding away at each other in the corner “—is going to redeem me in Lavinia Shacklebolt’s eyes in a week.”

Draco huffed. _“That_ is going to help you think less about breaking down each and every step, and to start to see the dance as a whole. _That_ is going to teach you how to interact with your partner, and _that_ is going to teach you how to trust your instincts when it comes to your movements.” He shoved the glass towards Harry’s hand. “And _that’s_ why I need to get you completely bladdered.”

Harry looked at the brownish liquid; for a pale ale, it looked undeniably dodgy.

“What is it?”

Draco nudged it closer. “Try it.”

Harry took a sip. His eyes widened appreciatively as he tasted the pumpkin flavoured ale, along with a hint of ginger and orange bitters.

“It’s a pumpkin shandy,” Draco said smugly. “I remember you being quite partial to pumpkin juice back at Hogwarts.”

“Yeah. This is really nice.” Harry took another sip, savouring the after effects of the spices on his tongue.

“So.” Harry looked up at Draco with a sly smile. “You remembered that I was partial to pumpkin juice. What other things have you noticed?”

 _Salazar_. Draco nearly choked on his drink. Harry was watching him with a look which was almost— _flirtatious_.

“No need to go stoking your ego, Potter. Pumpkin juice was pretty much the drink of choice for every student until the sixth year.”

“Not for you,” Harry countered.

Draco grinned. “Couldn’t keep your eyes off me either?”

Harry flushed. “You gave me every reason why I needed to keep a close eye,” he muttered. He regretted his words instantly when Draco’s teasing expression slid off his face.

Those grey eyes shuttered. “I’ll be back,” Draco said, getting up. “Refills.”

 _Bugger_. Harry cursed as he felt their tentative truce slip away. He reached out to grab Draco’s arm. “Um—you're drinking whiskey, right? Can you get me one also? I mean, if the goal is to get me out there...” He nodded towards the increasingly crowded dance floor with what he hoped was a conciliatory grin.

“Of course. Who am I to deny the great Harry Potter?” Draco answered with a tight smile.

Harry watched as Draco made his way to the bar, his platinum blond hair like a beacon amidst the flashing lights. Even in the sea of hard bodies, there was something about the way he moved—the way he looked—that invited people to stare.

 _Godric’s balls_. Draco was right; Harry had never been able to keep his eyes off the Slytherin for very long. Only it was five years later, the war was over, and yet the git still commanded his attention like no one else.

Harry forced himself to look away. He watched as two boys who looked too young to be in a place like this leaned into one another, moving closer as they held onto each other’s arms and hips. Tongues which were wet and coloured by fruity drink flickered and darted, teasing seductively until the taller of the pair drew his partner in for a full-on kiss. Their youthful carelessness and shameless desire filled Harry with a sadness even as his prick swelled.

“Miss me?” Malfoy slid into the booth, but unlike the last time, he was careful not to touch.

“Just—erm, taking in the view,” Harry confessed. He took the glass of amber liquid from Malfoy’s hand and welcomed the burn as the liquid slid down his throat.

 _“Merlin,_ that’s vile!” he spluttered. “I thought you were drinking whiskey!”

A smile twitched on Malfoy’s face. “I am. It _is_ whiskey—mixed with Fernet.”

Harry made a face. “What’s Fernet? Some kind of grass?” He took another tentative sip. “Dirt?”

 _“Fernet Branca._ It’s an Italian liqueur. It’s made from twenty-seven different herbs, and was originally created as a _digestif.”_

“It sounds as complicated and tastes as terrible as Polyjuice,” Harry said with a shudder. “Was Blaise responsible for introducing you to this?” Harry imagined the two Slytherins relaxing on the Italian Riviera, lounging around in their posh clothes and gossiping in their posh accents, savouring their posh drinks.

“No. I discovered it in Argentina. When I was there I drank a lot of _Fernet con Coca_ —which I’ll admit, is definitely an acquired taste.”

Harry furrowed a brow, trying to imagine what Malfoy was doing, half the world away.

“Argentina? When were you there?”

“Two years ago.”

“Doing—?”

Draco hesitated. “Trying to find a part of myself.”

Harry looked closely. Draco looked down and the set of his mouth softened, making him look almost vulnerable.

“I thought you were in France. I heard that your mother moved there, after the trials.”

“I was in a lot of places,” Draco said with a shrug. “I stayed in England the first year. It became too much for either of us to remain in Wiltshire—well, the Manor, specifically.” He looked pained. “Too many memories. Everything that I had once thought beautiful was now poisoned. Corrupted. I moved into our flat in London. We still had our homes, but practically everything else was placed under the Ministry’s hold.”

“You didn’t want to go to France with your mother?”

“It’s not a matter of what I wanted to do, at that time. My father was still in Azkaban.” Draco frowned at the look on Harry’s face. “I know what he did was terrible and wrong. I’m not saying that he didn’t deserve his sentence, it’s just—I couldn’t let him wither away in there, all on his own.”

Harry thought about his conversation with Blaise, about the difficulties Draco had encountered in the years immediately following the war. “Your friends were here, though. I’m surprised you didn’t try to get a job. Like Blaise.”

Draco’s brows flew up in surprise as he let out a bitter laugh. “Come now, Potter. You can’t truly be that naïve. Blaise’s family were never Death Eaters. Aside from his shortcomings—an overabundance of vanity, and having being sorted into Slytherin during an unfortunate time—why shouldn’t he be able to get a job? He’s smart, he's got the connections, and he has plenty of charm.”

Harry tried to ignore the flare of jealousy at Malfoy’s glowing words. “So, did you try?”

“Of course I did! Money grew scarce, with the Ministry tying up our holdings for so long. Not that it did any good," he added sourly. "No wizarding business would touch me—if it wasn’t because of the Malfoy name, or my Mark, then it was because I lacked the ability to perform magic. I'm sure you recall that I was temporarily relieved of my wand.”

Harry flushed. He had held onto Draco's hawthorn wand for over a year. In the beginning, the suffering and the loss from the war was too raw, and Harry still harboured the residue of resentment and distrust. But as time went on, things just got—well, busy. With his training with the Aurors, and with life. He had forgotten about Draco’s wand. It wasn’t until he began cleaning out some of the rooms in Grimmauld Place that he had come across it once more.

Hermione had walked in on him, standing in the middle of one of the unused bedrooms, holding onto the length of wood and looking somewhat lost. Harry remembered how the wand had come alive in his hand, thrumming with the energy of both his and Draco's magic. Hermione had taken one look at him before prying it from his reluctant grasp, owling it to Narcissa that very day.

Harry cleared his throat and took a slow sip of his drink. The taste of the Fernet was not as shocking on the second round; he was able to make out the hints of cardamom and gentian, mixed in with the rye. “So what did you do next?”

“Tried my hand at a couple of Muggle jobs. Not an easy thing, when you have no Muggle work-related skills, or when concepts like Muggle currency are completely new. I couldn’t find many people willing to hire an eighteen year old with no proof of citizenship or training, and those who did—well, I wasn’t able to hold onto those for very long.”

Draco sighed. He pushed back his hair and leaned into his seat. The movement cause his shirt to pull across the lean lines of his chest, highlighting his wiry strength and making Harry want to do— _things_. “It was a time when I was beaten down—both metaphorically and literally. When my father died a year later, it was an easy decision to pick up and move to France.”

“Did you end up getting your wand back?”

“Yes. After a fashion.” Draco looked at Harry knowingly, and Harry had the grace to blush. “By that time, Blaise had already visited; I’m sure that you know his job with the Ministry requires him to work closely with Muggles on occasion. He’s not only a fast learner but a great teacher—he taught me about the internet, mobiles and computers, and Euros and pounds. I used what he taught me, applied it to my love of books, and got a job at a nearby Uni library.”

The image of Draco in a quiet library surrounded by the smell of leather bound tomes was surprisingly endearing. Harry found himself leaning closer. “That’s great, Draco,” he said softly.

“You know what’s even greater? Discovering magic again.” Draco smiled dreamily, and Harry’s breath hitched at how beautiful Draco was when he let go of his haughty veneer. “I don’t mean Wizarding magic. I mean the magic that can be found in everyday things. Muggle things. Like, they have these tablets that can not only download the contents of a small library, but store things like moving pictures and stills. And it got me wondering; where else could magic be found in the Muggle world?

“I didn’t have my wand back, yet. And I missed the magic so much—it was a part of my identity that was suddenly missing from my life. So I kept looking, and one day, I found my answer.” He pulled out his iPhone and unlocked the screen.

 _“Patagonia: Land of Giants,”_ Harry read slowly. He felt Malfoy move closer, felt the pressure of their arms and the heat of their thighs as they touched.

“Yeah,” Draco said, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “When I saw the pictures in that book, I knew this was it. That if I were to find beauty and magic in the world again, Patagonia would be the place to go.” He scrolled through his photos eagerly. “I mean, look at what was there—creatures as beautiful and rare as to rival any that we have in the magical world. And that landscape—all those mountains, and volcanoes, and glaciers…”

Harry stared at the brilliant colours and majestic terrain and stunning fauna which appeared in rapid succession on the small screen. He couldn’t help feeling a stab of jealousy that he had never got to experience such things. That his life seemed—while meaningful in the simplest terms—also somewhat staid.

He watched as Draco’s own image in the photos changed. Draco's expression grew less haggard, the circles under his eyes less dark, and his pale skin turned healthy and tanned. His smiled changed from thin to wide, and the defensiveness in his posture relaxed into something more open and _alive_.

“Who’s that?” Harry asked, pointing the second man who appeared with Draco in many of the later pictures. He was tall and bronzed, with chocolate brown eyes and long hair that was pulled back into a small bun. Harry tried not to think of himself as petty, but it was hard not to hate the gorgeous stranger on the spot.

 _“Ahhh,”_ Draco said fondly with a wistful expression. “Gabriel. My friend, and my guide. He was the one who introduced me to the pleasures of the tango and Fernet and Coke. As well as—well, several other things,” he added with a lascivious wink.

“Sounds...great.” Harry choked, disturbed by the image of all that golden and lightly tanned flesh entwined amidst a backdrop of natural splendour. “But once you returned to France and were able to retrieve your wand, why didn’t you come back?”

“To wizarding Britain? Are you mad? Once the Ministry released what was left over in our vaults after the reparations, I applied my understanding of Muggle finance and technology to make some shrewd and extremely profitable investments.”

Harry frowned. “So after everything that’s been said and done—it’s back to making as much money as possible and living the good life?”

Malfoy looked at him angrily. “I have a right to earn a living and to keep my mother comfortable, just like anyone else. Anything past that is just an assumption on your part.” He let out a huff. “Not that you care. I’ve just confessed things that few outside of my closest circle know, and yet you still insist on viewing me as if nothing that I’ve said—that none of what I’ve learned or done—makes a bit of difference in the end.”

Harry looked down guiltily. He thought about his own prejudices. Of how hard it was for him to rid himself of his own preconceived notions. Of the cruel forms of public vigilantism and righteous justice which were still prevalent against wizards like Draco despite the rulings of the Wizengamot, while the Aurors looked the other way.

Draco was right. It was hard to let go of the past. Yet he had been successful in his efforts to move forward, whereas Harry felt pigeonholed. Stagnant.

"Sorry," Harry breathed. "You’re right. I assumed, based on things which may no longer hold true.” He paused. “In a strange way, I think I’m even a bit envious of what you’ve been able to accomplish.”

Draco couldn’t keep the shocked look from his face. “You? Envious of me? The Saviour of Wizarding Britain, beloved champion of the weak and underprivileged, envious of a disgraced ex-Death Eater? You're the Minister of Magic's right hand man; rumour is, you're on the fast track to becoming Head Auror in a few years.”

Harry took another sip of his drink. He mulled the liquid in his mouth, this time tasting the orange zest mixed with the earthiness on his tongue. “Yeah. I mean, I know I have a lot to be grateful for,” he said slowly, considering his words. “I have a great group of friends. My job is important, and despite what you may think, I’m exceptionally good at it. I would never accept a shortcut to get ahead of others who are just as deserving, or who work just as hard.”

“Of course, not,” said Draco, finishing his drink.

“But now—” Harry sighed. “I don’t what to whinge, or appear ungrateful. It’s just that—well, Ron and Hermione are married, and have a kid on the way. And I want to continue doing good for others, but…” Harry’s voice trailed, at a loss for words.

Draco leaned in. The din of the music and the press of the crowd faded into the background.

“Your friends have lives of their own. They support you, in their own way.” Those silver eyes flashed brilliantly, and Harry could practically taste the sweet and spicy heat of Draco’s breath. “But everyone’s moving on, and you’re on your own. Your whole life is about _doing_ —for Shacklebolt, for the public, for your friends, for yourself. But when it comes down to it, after you’ve given everything you have to everyone else, what do you have left? _Who_ do you have? Who do you have to carry you, when you need someone to do exactly that?”

Harry was dizzy. From the heat, from the whiskey, from the thudding noise. Draco’s words twisted around Harry’s gut, and his heart sank with the realisation that not only was Draco right, but that he had been able to see something in Harry that Harry hadn’t wanted to see in himself.

Harry _wanted_ it. To be able to give in. To not always be positioned as the pillar of responsibility and strength. To have someone in his life whom he could trust enough to just let go, and more importantly, who would also be there to catch him, should he fall.

His heart pounded. Somewhere in the background, the deep bass and pulsating electro beats crescendoed and bounced off the club’s walls. Half-naked bodies of all shapes and sizes ground against one another, splashed against the giant screens and captured in the flickering lights. Malfoy’s pink lips were so close. If Harry leaned in just a fraction, he could brush against them with a kiss...

Draco stood. His fingers, elegant yet strong, wrapped themselves around Harry’s wrist.

“I like this song. Come on, let’s dance.”

Harry hesitated. Draco started to move, teasing Harry even as those silver eyes remained dark and inscrutable against the glaring lights.

“Scared, Potter?”

Harry’s heart raced as he watched those lean lines undulate and those narrow hips writhe. Harry’s legs began to move of their own accord, and he felt himself starting to rise.

“You wi—”

“Draco! I’d recognize that fine arse anywhere!” A muscular arm draped itself over Draco’s shoulders. “You didn’t tell me you were back in town!”

Harry looked up. A striking man was staring at Draco with unabashed hunger in his brilliant blue eyes.

“I saw no reason to, as I’m only back for a couple of days,” Draco lied smoothly.

“Enough time to be out tonight, though.” The man’s eyes narrowed upon seeing Harry. “You’re out with him?”

Draco waved away the accusation. “Yes. We’ve been catching up. We were—acquaintances back in school. Harry, this is Julian. Julian, Harry.”

Julian barely acknowledged Harry before turning back to Draco. “I’ve missed you, Draco.” He ran his hand down Draco’s back. “You never call anymore. I’ve resorted to reading the dailies to find out what you’ve been up to,” he added with a petulant tone.

“I’ll save you the trouble and £2. ‘Draco Malfoy seen exiting Cundall and Garcia this weekend after purchasing two Scotch eggs.’”

“How about, ‘Draco Malfoy seen dancing the night away with next month’s cover model for L'Officiel Hommes?’"

"The cover?” Draco asked with an arched brow. “Mark must be ecstatic. Congrats.”

Julian preened. He tugged Draco’s hand. “Come dance with me, Draco. Let’s create an exciting headline for _The Sun_.”

“Harry.” Draco waited expectantly. “You coming?”

Harry swallowed. “Er—you go on ahead. I’ll join you in a bit.”

Draco watched him carefully before giving up with an elegant shrug. "Well, if you change your mind..."

Julian placed a proprietorial hand around Draco's waist as the pair joined the sea of gyrating bodies. Harry tried to curb his disappointment as Draco’s platinum blond hair got swallowed up in the bobbing crowd. A tightness settled in his chest, and he ignored the yelps of protest as he pushed his way towards to the bar.

Jasper hurried over after seeing the scowl etched on Harry’s face. “Hey, handsome,” he said, his eyes flicking towards the hard set of Harry’s mouth. He took out a rag and wiped the countertop clean. “What will it be?”

“Whiskey, and—” _What was that stuff?_  “Fernet?”

“Ahh, yes,’ Jasper smiled knowingly. “Draco’s drink. It’s even better if you add in a bit of Angostura bitters and syrup. Softens the blow of the Fernet.”

“Yeah. That.” Harry watched as Jasper mixed the drink and strained the contents into a chilled coupe.

Harry handed him a tenner. “Keep the change,” Harry said, taking a long sip as Jasper nodded his thanks. The dense flavours stood out against the rye, a surprising balance between bitter and sweet.

Harry cradled his drink and stared out into the dance floor, eyes trained on Malfoy. The way in which he moved was intoxicating—loose-limbed and seductive and free _._ Apparently Julian thought so as well, since the model’s hand appeared to be permanently fixed against the curve of Draco’s arse.

“Not much of a dancer?” asked Jasper, noticing the direction of Harry’s gaze.

“You know what they say. Two’s company, three’s…”

“What, Julian?” Jasper scoffed. “That’s a one way street if I ever saw one. Not that I blame the poor guy. Draco is one nice-looking bloke. And to top things off, just as nice on the inside.

“Yeah,” Jasper continued, unaware of Harry’s surprised look. “You know, he helped me out of a jam once. I was coming home from work. Pulled a double shift and was feeling a bit cabbaged, you know? Got jumped in the alleyway by a pair of munted arseholes. Stole all my wages, plus my tips for the night. Next thing I know, Draco comes out of nowhere. I mean, he’s tall and fast, but to this day I still don’t know how he was able to do it—it was like there was this blinding light, and the next thing I knew, those two pricks were laid out cold.”

Harry listened, stunned. Draco had violated the terms of the International Statute of Secrecy, not to mention his own parole. He had foregone the use of a memory charm and risked being thrown into Azkaban for his transgressions—all to assist a Muggle who had not much to offer him in return.

Jasper nattered on, mistaking the reason behind Harry’s shock. “I know. And then he made sure I got home. Didn’t even want anything afterwards. Not that I wouldn’t have minded,” Jasper added, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin. “I mean look at him. But the thing with Draco is this: he’s definitely got it bad for someone. Never stays with the same guy for very long. Whoever’s got his heart and head twisted for all these years better come to their senses soon, lest they lose out on a great thing.”

Jasper’s voice trailed off at Harry’s silence. “Uhh—look, it’s been nice chatting with you, but I’ve got to get back to work. Holler if you need anything, okay?”

Harry nodded. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the dance floor, unable to take his eyes off Malfoy. In a room filled with sweaty and ridiculously fit men who were ready to pull, Harry was unable to look at anyone else aside from Malfoy, whose face was currently tilted back in a half-blissed expression, his lips curled into a sultry pout.

Julian had moved in, his chest flush against Draco’s, his large hands snug around Draco’s hips. He mouthed something into Draco’s ear and flashed a wicked grin, as Draco arched his neck and laughed. Harry watched as the other dancers began to circle the breath-taking pair. Draco’s pale beauty lit up the dark, attracting onlookers like moths to a flame. He was luminescent—bright and incandescent, and purer than any of the club’s other colourless, flashing and artificial lights.

Harry felt the tug, too. But for Harry, it was more than just Draco’s beauty. It was the way Draco had always managed to incite a cavalcade of emotions within him—whether in anger or sorrow, or awe or disdain, or frustration or lust. No matter the emotion, Harry’s reactions around Draco were unfailingly passionate and instinctive—and undeniably _real._ When it came down to it, it was always Draco who had consumed Harry’s thoughts, who made Harry’s blood sing, and who reminded Harry of what it meant to feel _alive_.

Harry clenched his fists. He felt uncomfortably hot, the adrenaline coursing through his blood and pushing itself into every part of his body until he had to disburden its excessiveness with his quickening breaths. He stalked towards his quarry, the floor tilting dangerously amidst the loose laughter and heavy breaths and blurring lights. His head was muzzy from all the whiskey and the sweltering heat of the packed room, and he felt his magic reaching out, searching for Draco, its thread pulsing wildly with every thump of the pounding bass.

“Draco.” Harry tapped him on the shoulder, his breath finally slowing in a woozy flush.

“Potter. Looks like I got you out here, after all,” Draco grinned back at him with a slurry drawl. His grey eyes were feverishly lit as they peered from beneath his smudged liner, burning unusually bright. His fine hair fell over the prominence of his cheeks, while his damp shirt clung to the planes of his chest. A bead of sweat had formed over the top of Draco’s upper lip, making him appear even dirtier and more deliciously debauched. It took all of Harry’s strength to stop himself from pulling Draco into his arms, and wiping off that glistening drop with the flat of his tongue.

“You got me—” Harry stopped, buffeted about by the bodies that were pulsing around him. He ignored Julian’s outraged expression as he found refuge in Draco’s warmth, shivering as their hips and chests lay flush against one another, his body giving into the music’s seductive rhythms as he arched into Draco’s touch.

The spicy scent of Draco’s soap mixed with the sweat and booze of a hundred revellers made everything dirty and raw. Draco lowered his hands over Harry’s hips, his fingers tugging at Harry’s waist as they gave into the bump and grind. Draco’s nipples were straining against the thin material of his shirt, his mouth wet and eager, and his pupils dilated beneath his heavy lids.

Emboldened by the frotting bodies around them, Harry rolled his hips. Hands which were not Draco’s cascaded down his chest and back; Harry groaned from the ache that the added sensations created in his already swollen cock. He rutted against the front of Draco’s trousers, repeatedly pressing his turgid length against the welcome friction, blinded by lust when he encountered something equally as hard.

Harry raised his arms slowly, winding them around Draco’s neck. He reached over with a calloused thumb to swipe over the corner of Draco’s parted mouth. “Draco,” Harry whispered, licking his lips.

Draco blinked. The stubble along Potter’s jaw grew shadowed in the lighting of the club. He imagined how it would feel, to have that roughness rubbing against the most sensitive parts of his own skin, teasing and chafing his flesh until it was pink and raw. It would be so easy to give into the taste of Potter’s thick lips—lips that were a mere breath away from his own, and to wrestle with the sweetness of his tongue. It would undoubtedly lead to some fantastic sucking and fucking—and to a night of repeatedly burying himself in Potter’s arse, his cock ensconced in Potter’s warm, welcome heat, with Potter writhing under him as Draco stared into Potter’s gorgeous, hypnotic eyes.

Eyes which were all-knowing. Eyes which had watched him for so many years with suspicion and intent.

Draco pulled back with a tight laugh. “Excellent, Potter,” he said hoarsely. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to free himself from the remnants of Potter’s pull. “I guess you can be taught to let loose, after all.”

“Don’t do this, Draco,” Harry growled as Draco’s expression regained its famed Malfoy hauteur. His magic lashed out around them, untethered and restless once more. “Not after what just happened. I know you feel it, too.”

“Felt what, Potter?” Draco sneered. They had stopped moving, oblivious to the curious looks being thrown their way. “What did you think this was? It’s called _dancing_. You tell a story with your body. Don’t make it out to be something it’s not.” As if to prove his point, he arched with his back against Julian, holding their hips together as the model’s crotch slid suggestively up and down the curves of Draco’s arse.

Harry snapped as Julian sucked along the pale length of Draco’s neck, leaving a purpled mark in its wake. “You told me a lot of _stories_ tonight, Draco,” he spat. “I guess that’s all they are to you. My mistake for making them out to be something they’re not.“ Harry spun on his heels; in his anger, he missed the hurt which flashed across Draco’s face.

Harry fumed. His magic was growing uncontrolled, caught somewhere in limbo between his humiliation and lust. Its current level of unruliness was masked by the vibrations of the music and the stamping of hundreds of feet, as well as the haze of the liquor and sex and drugs. But if he were to stay in Draco’s presence for much longer…

 _Fuck_. Harry had no desire to try and explain to Kingsley why his magic had discharged at levels strong enough to cause serious damage in a crowded Muggle club. Harry ran to the loo, barely sparing a glance at the couple who was grinding away in the corner before he Apparated home with a loud _crack_.

Half an hour later, he sat alone in the dark and safety of his flat, his hands covered with the remnants of an unsatisfying wank while his anger and desire towards Malfoy still lingered unabated.

 

**⚜.~OVO~. ⚜**

The afternoon sun turned the calm waters into a thousand prisms as Harry stared out over Serpentine Lake. The park was filled with the noise of clattering hooves and excited children, and the whirrs of the pochards and grey-lag geese. Sweet magnolia blossoms scented the air, while a carpet of bluebells and narcissi showed off their pendulous blooms.

Harry cast a discrete _Tempus_ and gathered his jacket off the bench. The throbbing in his head was nearly gone, along with the dull ache which had wrapped itself around his temples and the back of his neck. His trip to Hogsmeade that morning had been a right clanger. After deciding to avoid the dailies and the telly—on the off-chance that either were to report on a certain playboy’s scandal-filled night—he had flooed over to The Three Broomsticks, in the hopes of losing himself in some of the stores along High Street, and recapturing some of the wonderment of his youth.

His headache started the minute he approached Spintwitches, hoping to catch a glimpse of the redesigned Firebolt Supreme. The beauty was proudly displayed in the window, an aerodynamically charged length of diamond-polished ash that lived up to its promise of accelerating from zero to one hundred-seventy-five mph in seven-and-a-half seconds flat. A picture of Harry flew alongside the broom, his Gryffindor uniform flapping out from behind him as his fingers curled over the Snitch again and again as it played in an endless loop.

And it wasn’t just Spintwitches; he was _everywhere_ , his #100 Gold Card charmed to stick onto the Chocolate Frog display at Honeydukes; an old photo of him and Ginny sharing tea and biscuits in Madame Puddifoot’s; an advertisement featuring the Golden Trio at Gladrag’s Wizardwear; and a banner promoting his upcoming interview at the WWN. By the time Harry stepped through the doors at Tomes and Scrolls, he was beginning to wonder whether he would ever be seen as anything more than the public’s perception of his past.

He snatched a copy of the latest bestseller from the shelf, thinking he would return to London and pass the rest of the afternoon with a mindless read. Instead, his headache exploded as he stared at the smirking image of his ex, blond hair coiffed and lips pursed as the smarmy git blew him a kiss from the cover of _The Boy Who Lived to Shag Me._ By the time Harry had stumbled into his living room in Grimmauld Place, he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt truly free.

He thought about what it felt like to give into Draco’s warmth—the surprising strength in those arms, the sturdiness of his chest, and the support and assuredness of his legs. He remembered what it was like to lose himself in the music, and to fly—not in the air, alone, but with his feet on the ground, and with Draco by his side.

The memory startled Harry out of his self-pity, replacing the sorry sentiment with a moment of blinding clarity. Dancing, Harry realized, was more than just a social formality. Dancing, as Draco had tried to explain, was not just about knowing the right steps.

Dancing was about listening to you partner. It was about communication, and above all, trust.

Harry wanted it—wanted to open himself up, to give in, to trust someone enough to let them take control. If Harry could learn to do so through dance, then perhaps he could find that freedom in other areas of his life. And despite their intense and messy history—or perhaps, _because_ of it—Harry knew that Draco would be the one who could show him how.

At half four, Harry put in a concerted effort, scrubbing himself clean before donning his best button-down shirt and bespoke trousers and brushing back his hair. At six, he started his long walk around Hyde Park, using the time to collect his thoughts and bravado, until he finally reached the entrance to Malfoy’s flat.

At precisely half six, he took a deep breath, stepped forward and knocked.

 

**.~ ⚜~.**

“Potter…” Draco stood in the doorway, unable to hide his shock.

“We still have one more lesson.” Harry shifted uncomfortably, then screwed up his courage. “May I come in?”

Draco hesitated before finally stepping aside. “I see that you decided to dress the part.” And _Merlin_ , did he. Draco couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way in which the Dormeuil fabric of Harry’s trousers hugged the round shape of his delectable arse.

“Er—look, Draco. About last night...I’m sorry if I got the wrong idea. And even more sorry about some of the things I said.” Harry’s face coloured. “I probably overdid it on the drinks. I mean, if it’s any indication, I was actually pissed enough to order a second whiskey and Fernet.”

Draco bit back a smile. It was hard to stay angry when Harry looked the way he did, topped off with contrition on his face and an apology on his lips. “Like I said, Potter. It’s a bit of an acquired taste.”

“Well, anyway,” Harry continued. “I want to finish our lessons. Not just so I won’t bollock things up at the next Ministry function, although honestly, that would be nice.” He took a deep breath. “The steps, the partnering, the connection—I want to learn it all. I’m ready to give everything I have to these lessons. To find out what it truly means to dance.”

There was a beat of silence before Draco surprised Harry with a blinding grin. “I’m glad to hear it,” Draco said as he took Harry’s hand and led him to the drawing room. The cream-coloured walls were bathed in the golden yellows of the afternoon sun, its warmth reflected off the tapestries and silks.

“I want you to listen to the music first. Let it flow through you,” Draco instructed. “When we waltz, we will be conveying the emotions of the piece through our movements.” He spelled the radio to play. _“Instrumentum ‘Lippen Schweigen, flüstern Geigen,"_ he incanted slowly, his voice hushed.

The wistful cry of the lone violin was soon joined by the harmony of its companions and the answering call of the cello. Draco closed his eyes, his pale lashes brushing over the curves of his cheeks, pink lips parted as he hummed and swayed. The tenor pleaded with the soprano, the two trading entreaties before coming together in a rapturous duet which played out in front of the entire orchestra. Its beauty stirred something deep within Harry, an obvious longing that was also filled with the brilliance of hope.

When last notes of the song faded into the quiet of the evening, Draco opened his eyes. Harry noticed that they looked suspiciously moist. “It’s beautiful,” Harry breathed.

“It’s one of my favourites.” For a moment, Draco looked so very young and sad. “One of my fondest memories is watching my father and my mother singing the words to each other as they danced.”

“What are they singing to each other? In the song?”

Draco shook his head. “The meaning is conveyed in the music as well. The words don’t matter.”

Harry began to protest, but snapped his mouth shut. Words mattered, but words could also be twisted and suppressed. Anyone who lived through a war understood that better than most.

Draco gathered Harry into his arms. “Keep your posture upright, but your body relaxed. Face me always, whether we’re moving backwards or forwards.” There was a brief pause as the piece restarted; Draco’s hand trembled faintly, before curling over Harry’s and holding him fast in his grip.

“Let’s go,” Draco whispered as the strings began playing the familiar motifs of the waltz. The three-count beats opened slowly, then started picking up speed. “You’re thinking too much, Potter,” Malfoy murmured. They whirled and performed the quarter turns as the tempo settled and the harps joined the strings. “Look into my eyes. Just _feel.”_

A melodic change was signalled by the ascending notes of the soprano which transformed into a sweet and romantic theme. Harry stared at Draco, mesmerised by the way his hair changed from the colour of spun gold to nearly white depending on the angle of the late afternoon light, the strands falling softly over his forehead as they moved throughout the room. Draco’s hands were gentle yet firm, his long legs guiding them through the more difficult figures. They fell back, then turned to move forward, hips touching and feet gliding as the music swelled and the timpanis rolled. As the codetta accelerated to reach the glorious reiteration of the main theme, Harry felt Draco reaching out, the sophisticated strands of his magic darting playfully, grasping onto his own magic’s powerful threads and pulling him into their hold.

Harry soared as his body reacted beautifully to the music and the dance. And to Draco—with all his pureblood elegance and grace, and his Muggle-appreciating sensitivity and heart. And when the final chords railed triumphantly and proclaimed the love between the leads, Harry felt as if he never wanted the sensation to stop.

He looked up. Draco continued to hold onto him with pinked cheeks and audible breaths, his silver eyes in the dying sun reflecting his hunger and want.

“Draco,” Harry whispered. He gripped Draco’s smooth hand against his large, calloused ones, unwilling to let go. “Why did you really agree to give me dance lessons?”

“I—” The snarky response died in Draco’s throat upon seeing the raw hope in Harry’s expression. “I was curious.” Draco looked down, unable to meet Harry’s questioning eyes. “Curious as to how I would feel, when I saw you again.”

“And how did you feel?” Harry loosened his hand from Draco’s hold, running it gently along the length of his slender jaw. “What do you feel now? Because I’m thinking that I feel the same way, too.” Harry leaned closer, his thigh brushing up suggestively against Draco’s unmistakable bulge.

Draco shuddered. He tilted forward, his forehead resting atop the thick waves which curled all over Harry’s head. “Nothing happened with Julian last night,” he confessed, his voice tinged with anguish and need. “I went home after you left. Alone.”

Harry made a small sound at the revelation.

“Harry...whatever happens. I can’t stay.”

Harry knew Draco was warning him. That for whatever reason, he would not—could not—give more than this.

“It’s a good thing we have tonight, then.”

 

**.~ ⚜~.**

“Potter...”  Draco ran his hand along Harry’s cheek and let out a soft sound.  His long fingers clasped Harry’s jaw as he descended, the sensual curves of his mouth turning hard and fierce as he devoured the sweetness of Harry’s tongue. Harry sighed as Draco deepened the kiss; Draco tasted like Belgian chocolates and fine wine, and smelled of lemons and the Quidditch pitch after a warm rain.  It was a slurry of sensations which was intoxicating in its novelty, yet reassuring in it familiarity—reminding Harry that the Draco who stood before him was no longer the arrogant and insensitive boy of his youth, but every inch a man.

Draco let out a soft laugh as Harry’s hand wandered over the curves of his arse. Harry moaned, half with desire and half with frustration, needing to feel the weight of Draco’s lean body against him as he drew him tight.  Harry cursed the clothing which slid in a maddening fashion between them, covering their sculpted chests and rutting cocks.

“Fuck,” Harry growled as his thumb slipped over the fasteners of Draco’s shirt. “Only you would wear something with so many bloody buttons!”  

“Potter—” Draco warned as Harry yanked on the shirt.  The buttons fell and skittered across the floor, exposing the blighted lines which disfigured Draco's otherwise flawless chest.  Heat flooded Harry’s face, his apology sticking in his throat.

“Harry.”  There was no anger in Draco's voice, only sorrow tinged with the embrocation of forgiveness as he pulled Harry close.  Harry reached out, running his fingers along the scars' crisscrossed shapes. Their texture felt strange under his fingertips—smooth and lifeless, and coloured a ghostly white. He brushed his lips over Draco's chest in apology, lingering over those sections where smooth transitioned to rough, white turned to pink, and where the previously tasteless flesh grew salty with Draco's sweat, as warmed by the pounding of his heart.

Draco's legs nearly gave way as Harry took a pink nipple and suckled the nub in his mouth.   _"Circe,"_ Draco gasped. His fingers worked feverishly to undo the belt and zipper of his trousers, not having the presence of mind to lower them to his feet. There was something about seeing Draco so flustered—so eager and willing, with his well-tailored pants rumpled midway around his thighs—that filled Harry with a smug satisfaction even as it drove him wild.

“God, you’re _gorgeous,”_ Harry breathed. He fell to his knees at the sight of Draco’s perfect cock, its engorged head peeping over the top of his silk boxers, mouthwatering pink and prettily flushed.  Harry began to mouth the slippery material, his lust mounting as Draco’s cock hardened underneath. "Need to see you," Harry moaned, his own cock aching as he hooked his fingers around the undergarment and pulled, removing both the trousers and the wadded fabric in one fluid movement.

Harry stared at Draco’s prick, its pink length jutting proudly from a nest of blond curls.  A needy whine escaped him as he grabbed the base and angled it towards his mouth.  When Draco pressed his hand against the back of Harry’s head in encouragement, Harry opened wide and began to suck.

He lapped at the bead of fluid that appeared at the slit—bitter yet sweet, the liquid slick against the sponginess of the glans. Draco began feeding him his prick, his bollocks laying heavy as his cock slid repeatedly against Harry’s talented tongue, Harry’s cheeks hollowing as those plush lips reddened further with each deliberate pump of Draco's hips.  “Fuck, look at you,” Draco said hoarsely. Draco thumbed the angle of Harry’s jaw, his pupils dilating as he pressed against the roughness of the dark stubble, the pad of his fingers edging along the corner of Harry’s swollen mouth.  He could come like this—at the sight of _Harry fucking Potter_ on his knees, his lips wrapped around him, Harry’s throat working furiously as he took Draco down to the root.

The room filled with the sounds of their filth as Harry lapped along the vein on the underside of Draco’s prick.  Draco stretched Harry open with his thickness, his fingers gripping the strands of Harry’s unruly hair as he pressed further into the back of Harry’s throat.  The movements of Draco’s hips lengthened as he thrust into that delicious mouth; Harry let out a choked gasp, taking everything Draco was giving him with tears in his eyes and a rapturous look on his face, knees to the ground as if in supplication to Draco’s prick.

It was too intense, too good, and—if Harry were to continue—much too short. “I... _ngghh,_ wait!” Draco gasped, his fingers clenching painfully in an effort to still Harry’s bobbing head. Draco grimaced as he withdrew, taking several deep breaths as his cock slipped out of that exquisite warmth with an angry _pop._ “Not yet,” he begged, willing his arousal to abate as he caught his breath. He pulled Harry up, ushering him towards the bed before pushing him down. “I’ve dreamt of this moment for far too long to end it as quickly as this.”

Harry felt himself fall. Malfoy loomed over him, his lashes fluttering prettily even as he flashed a wicked smile with that ridiculously sexy mouth. Draco’s hands—hands which had taunted and hexed and clung in fear to Harry in the past—now caressed each muscled ridge with something akin to reverence as they worked to quickly divest Harry of his clothes.

Harry let out a whimper as Draco settled between his legs, gently bending their trembling lengths so they fell open to each side.

“Malfoy!” Harry let out a garbled cry as Draco descended, his sinful mouth landing not on Harry’s engorged prick, but atop his furled pucker. The helpless sound only encouraged Draco, who wore a feral grin as he licked a stripe along Harry’s perineum before lapping away at the exposed hole. The wet and sloppy noises spurred on Harry’s wriggling hips as Draco continued to taste and nuzzle him from below.

Draco inhaled, his nostrils filling with the scent of Harry’s musk. He slid down further, his hands prising apart those muscular globes as he busied himself between those mounds of flesh. Harry lifted his head to watch, nearly coming at the sight of Draco working furiously, his sharp chin glistening with the evidence of saliva and sweat as he ate Harry's arse as if he were a starved man set before a veritable feast.

“Fuck, fuck, buggering _fuuuuck!"_ Harry’s eyes rolled as Draco stiffened his tongue and breached the tight circle to enter the smooth heat.  Harry felt the desperation roll through him as his muscles clenched, his magic intensifying and becoming uncontrolled. “Draco...” Harry moaned. The nightstand rattled on its spindled feet; Harry’s magic roiled, its energy becoming restless and unleashed. Draco retrieved his wand from the nightstand; he hastily cast a spell to coat the swollen tissue with slick, and followed the preparation by pushing his finger eagerly into the wetness.

Harry’s beautiful face twisted at the intrusion, his erection flagging slightly as he let out a small cry.  Draco’s mouth fell open. He stilled his hand as soon as he realised that Harry was unusually _tight_.

“Is this your first...?” Draco shook his head. Potter was definitely experienced with other men, if Blaise and all the articles in the _Prophet_ were to be believed. Plus, his skill at sucking cock was masterful, to say the least.  Draco stared at Harry’s shy flush; despite all his bravado and the callow bottoming jokes, another possibility slowly emerged.

“Have you never bottomed?” Draco asked softly.

Harry lowered his eyes.  “I’ve only tried it once.  I—erm, usually top.”

Draco sat back on his haunches, trying to mask his disappointment. “It’s okay, Harry,” he said gently. “I'm comfortable with both; we can do it the other way.” He shifted, reaching for his wand in an effort to prepare himself.

Harry’s hand shot out.  Draco would swear before the Wizengamot that no words were ever uttered before the length of wood appeared firmly in Harry’s grasp.

“Really, Potter,” Draco remarked breathlessly. “That’s the second time you’ve used wandless magic around me. I’m starting to think you’re an incorrigible showoff. Either that, or you have an unnatural preoccupation with my wand.”

Harry laughed then, the sound of it rumbling and deep. “You thought I was a showoff from the moment we first met, Draco. And for the record, I am _more_ than preoccupied with your wand. Much, much more.” The levity slid from his face, replaced by a naked vulnerability.  Draco felt like he was swimming, then sinking in a sea of green. “I wasn’t ready the first time, when I tried to bottom,” Harry added. “But I want to try again. With you.”

Draco stared at Harry, his silver eyes bright with a mixture of triumph and disbelief. Harry watched as those pouty lips swooped down and slanted over his own.

“I’ve got you, Potter,” Draco murmured. _“Accio pot en porcelain."_ A small, blue container flew into his hand. As Draco unscrewed the cap, Harry was assaulted by an herbal smell that was also spicy and sweet.  There was a squelch as Draco swirled his fingers in the unctuous solution; once they were generously lubed, he began to trace the boundaries of Harry’s entrance with their fragrant balm.

Harry clenched as the cool liquid coated the margins of his heated pucker.  “Relax. Let me take care of you,” Draco soothed, kissing Harry’s lips.  He used his free hand to steady Harry’s hips as his slickened digits began to work their way inside. Draco watched Harry intently, the grey in his eyes disappearing to black as he watched his finger being swallowed by Harry’s greedy hole.

Draco pushed, slowly fingering and stretching the loosening walls.  He smiled as Harry’s sighs deepened and his expression grew more lax. “Ready for another?” Draco whispered, delighting when Harry answered with a loose smile and a tempting wriggle of his arse.

“Please, Draco…” Harry whined. Draco gradually worked in a second finger, and then a third, his movements growing blunted as Harry bore down, taking Draco in until he was buried to his knuckles. Harry’s breaths were coming more rapidly as his arsehole filled and widened. His cock lay hard and leaking against his belly, his chest suffused with a deepening flush. He grew delirious from the scent of their sex and the noise as he began to fuck himself on Draco’s hand, his arse moving downwards to meet each of Draco’s pistoning thrusts.

Harry whimpered, unable to satisfy the ache. He swiveled his hips and encouraged Draco’s fingers to push deeper even as he reached for Draco’s prick. “Want you inside me,” Harry begged.  He wrapped his fingers around Draco's thick length and slid its heavy weight into his fist. “Want to feel every inch of this perfect cock.”

Draco shuddered; listening to Harry was like dousing himself in _Amortentia_ , the needy words shooting straight to his prick.  He withdrew his fingers, the well-oiled digits sliding out of Harry with a filthy squelch. He stared at the results of his efforts—at those delectable buttocks slicked with lube and saliva, and the wet, golden skin surrounding a gaping circle of pink and obscenely swollen flesh.

 _“Salazar,_ Potter. You’re so fucking gorgeous.”  Harry was absolutely beautiful; Draco felt like he could come just from staring at Harry’s powerful body, splayed out in front of him for his perusal and desperately debauched. Draco reluctantly removed Harry’s fingers and slid back up, his cock rubbing alongside Harry’s as he braced his arms on either side of Harry’s muscular frame.

“It would be easier for you if you turn over,” Draco said hoarsely.  His tongue licked the bead of sweat which formed along the line of corded muscles as he nipped the curve of Harry’s neck.

“I've never been one for 'easy.' That’s not what I need, Draco; _you_ are. Let me see you,” Harry pleaded as he pulled Draco down for a drawn out kiss.

Draco’s heart thundered against his chest. “Knees up,” he urged. He slicked his cock generously before pressing against Harry’s entrance with its tip. He pressed forward once more, groaning as the resistance gave way, opening itself up to accommodate the thick head of his prick.

Harry gasped at the intrusion, at the sensation of impossible _fullness_ with just the head. “That’s it, Harry,” Draco crooned. The burn began to subside as Draco murmured his encouragement, giving way to pleasure as the feeling transformed into something more urgent. Draco began to move, his thrusts deepening each subsequent stroke, each snap of his hips coaxing a tremulous response from Harry and encouraging him to let go.

Harry canted his hips, the movement drawing Draco’s attention to the heavy thickness of Harry’s cock. _“Merlin,_ you have no idea how sexy you are,” Draco exclaimed under his breath. He let out a hiss at the exquisite _tightness_ that sheathed him as he finally sank all the way in, the wiry hairs surrounding his cock pressing up against the barrier of Harry’s smooth skin.

Draco dug his fingers into Harry’s writhing buttocks as Harry let out another moan.  Harry’s breaths came quickly as his green eyes darkened and grew unfocused, his hands holding fast onto Draco’s back.

“Give it to me, Draco. _Please.”_ Harry drew up his legs until his knees were touching his chest, presenting Draco with the full beauty of his arse.  Harry began chanting as Draco began thrusting forcefully into his heat.  “Gods, don't stop, need you to keep fucking me, need something _more—_ ” He bucked, his eyes rolling wildly as he clutched at his cock.

Draco batted his hand away. “I’ve got you, Harry.” He draped Harry’s legs over his shoulders, drawing his cock out slowly before slamming it back in. Draco angled himself upward, dragging his cock over Harry’s prostate, his balls slapping loudly against the back of Harry’s thighs.

Harry’s ruddy cock bounced and leaked onto his belly with each forceful thrust.  He became lost in the intensity of his pleasure, each fierce swipe of Draco’s cock against his prostate causing a spark of pleasure to flare through him and leaving him feeling as if he were about to explode. A heat gathered at the base of his spine, its intensity spreading through his groin as his balls pulled high and tight.  His arse clenched as Draco’s cock continued to slam into him, his body gripping, shaking, and so close to letting go…

“Come on Potter,” Draco urged. His eyes never left Harry’s, grey locking into green, even as his movements stuttered. He had never been this achingly hard before; it felt _incredible_ , how _perfectly_ they fit, how _beautifully_ Harry responded every time Draco rammed his cock into Harry’s arse. “Come on Harry, come for me,” Draco panted, gritting his teeth.

“Fuck, Draco!" Harry practically sobbed from how good—how utterly  _complete_ —he felt. _"Sogoodsogood_ , _Goddamn fucking f-uuuuuckk!”_ Harry’s eyes glazed over as his face went slack. He gave a keening cry as he spilled, the thick ropes of come spurting and splattering all over his stomach and chest.

 _Salazar._ Draco looked at Harry, at those dazed and half-lidded eyes, at the tanned skin painted beautifully with the pearly streaks of Harry’s come. Filled with a fierce possessiveness, he ground his hips and gave one last shuddering thrust as he gave into the blinding whiteness and emptied his load.

It felt like he couldn’t stop; even through the orgasmic haze, Draco’s mind registered the fact that theirs could never be just an ordinary fuck.  He whimpered and held on tightly, his pulsating cock hypersensitive to each and every exquisite drag as it slid along Harry’s loosened channel, slicked with an abundance of lube and seed.  After releasing what felt like a year’s worth of spunk, he gave one last weak push before sliding out and collapsing bonelessly next to Harry’s side.

 _“Draco.”_  Harry sighed, a pleased sound that shot right to Draco’s heart. Draco cupped Harry’s jaw, rubbing the stubbled edge along his palm before lowering his head to capture Harry’s mouth.  It was a kiss that was languid and soft, yet bittersweet in its promise.  Draco dropped his hand and rolled over onto his back, trying to ignore the tightness that had settled over his heart.

Harry stretched contentedly and rolled over to his side, staring at his former nemesis. Draco’s eyes were closed, his breathing steady, lashes fanned against his cheeks. If it weren’t for the trace of tightness at the corners of his mouth, he could almost pass for being asleep.

Harry traced a finger along Draco’s jaw, willing it to settle into something less tense. “Draco," he whispered.  Harry watched the pale chest with its paler scars speed in its rise and fall. An ice cold dread fell over him; he could feel Draco pulling away, throwing up his protective walls.

“Stay, Draco,” Harry begged, burying his face in the space between Draco’s shoulder and his neck. “I don’t want you to go. Stay with me in London; come to the Muggle Acceptance and Integration Dance next week.”

A decade of close observation made Harry intimately familiar with the subtleties of Draco’s expressions. The nearly imperceptible hardening of his jaw. The quick flare of his delicate nostrils. The briefest parting of his lips as Draco’s self-preservation warred with his emotions, right before he slipped behind the safety of his Malfoy mask.

“I can’t.” Draco stared at the ceiling—at the night sky, the canopy which curtained his bed, seemingly everywhere except at Harry. “I need to get back.  I have things that await my return.”

“Please, Draco. Don’t leave, not just yet.”  Harry heard the desperation creep in his voice. “Let me take you out to dinner, take you on a proper date.”

Malfoy extricated himself from the warmth of Harry’s body, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed. “So you expect me to drop my plans,” Draco said flatly, pulling on his boxers. Harry swallowed as the black silk covered Draco’s flaccid cock. “Just like that.”

“No! Just—just extend your stay here, for just another week.”

“And what after that? I should just cast aside the life that I’ve made for myself, all for the pleasure of a dinner and a dance?”

“Not just a dinner and a dance,” Harry argued. “For the chance at something even better. Hopefully, with me.” Harry pressed on mulishly. “I’m not blind. I know there will be difficulties on both ends, but I don’t want to give up on the possibility of finding out what _this_ is.”  He waved his hand between them.  “What we we have, and what we could be.” He reached out for Draco. “Don’t run away from this, Draco.  Dumbledore once said that it was our choices that showed us who we truly are.”

Draco scoffed, turning away from Harry’s touch. “Considering that my life has been filled with one bad choice after another, what does that make me?”

“It makes you someone who made the effort to turn their life around. Someone who realised that sometimes we don’t always choose correctly, and who has made the effort since to make amends. Someone who was brave enough to own up to the consequences of their decisions, and do something about it.”

“Yet you think me a coward if I were to return to France…”

“I’m not calling you a coward! I’m just asking you to consider that there may be something worthwhile here to stay for!”

“You don’t understand,” Draco said fiercely. “I’ve been through this already. If I were to stay in England, I would never be seen as anything more than the mistakes of my past.”

“You wouldn’t have to do it alone. I would be here, Draco. Together, we could try to figure it out!”

“Think about it, Potter. You’re on your way to becoming Head Auror. You would risk everything that you’ve worked for, for what? For another fuck?” Draco smiled, his lips twisting and contorting his face into something ugly. “Oh, how the public would hate me even more than they already do, for sullying _The Chosen One._ Or would you prefer to keep our relationship hidden? After all, what politician doesn’t have their dirty little secret?!”

“Look, Draco, I know it wouldn’t always be easy, and I can’t predict where we would be in a year from now. But I know how you make me feel, and I want to try. I could help you—”

 _“Saint Potter.”_ The words were said so quietly that Harry had to strain to hear. “It’s just like you, isn’t it? Always helping the fallen.” Draco stood, grabbing his clothes as he headed towards the en-suite. As he reached the doorway, he stopped. Harry’s heart dropped as Draco remained with his back turned, his beauty silhouetted by the overhead light.

“I have an 7:00 Portkey tomorrow morning, Potter. If I remember correctly, you know your way out.”

Harry took a step towards the closing door, his heart breaking as Draco disappeared behind the slab of brass and wood. Harry wanted nothing more than to blast the door off its hinges and shake some sense into the man, but when it came to the dance of life, Draco needed to heed his own advice.

It was Draco’s turn to learn to trust—to have faith in himself, as well as in the goodness of others. If Draco were to be defined by his choices, then it was up to him to make the right ones.

Harry sighed. He threw on his clothes, and with a heaviness in his heart, stepped out into the quiet London night.

 

**⚜.~OVIO~. ⚜**

“Hey, are you going to finish that?”

Harry looked down at the generous helping of murgh makhani that sat virtually untouched on his plate.

“Nah. Not hungry much these days.” He managed a grin as Ron took his response for an invitation. “I thought it was Hermione who was supposed to be eating for two?”

Ron shovelled the pieces of chicken and curry sauce onto his rice. “There’s a name for it. It’s called Coul—” He looked at Hermione. “What do the Muggles call it again?”

 _“Couvade syndrome,”_ Hermione answered, rolling her eyes fondly as Ron let out a contented sigh. “Otherwise known as sympathetic pregnancy. Although the only symptoms which seem to have manifested in Ron so far are the increased appetite and weight gain.”

“Hey!” Ron protested, his mouth full. “I need to get my nourishment where I can. I won’t be able to keep up with the rest of the Aurors if most of my meals look like that.” He pointed dispiritedly at the vivid green, orange, and yellow mixture that made up the vegetable bhaji on Hermione’s plate.

“It’s _healthier,_ Ron. After all, I’m the one who’s eating for two.”

Ron leaned over. “I never thought I would miss Hermione’s cooking,” he said sotto voice as Harry gave him a sympathetic wince “But all these vegetables are giving me second thoughts.”

“You can always come over to mine. We’ll order all the beef and lamb you want.” Harry laughed, the sound of it forced and hollow. “At least there’s something good about being single.”

Ron and Hermione gave each other a knowing glance.

“All right, out with it,” Harry sighed. “You invited me here for more than just a friendly dinner, didn’t you?”

“Well mate,” Ron began, his face reddening. “We’ve been worried about you. You never want to go out anymore, and you’re more than consumed with your work. And, uh, lately you’ve had a short fuse. You were a bit of an arse to Walcott when he told you how much he admired you.”

“I was in the fucking loo!”

“I know Harry, but he’s just a kid! He entered the Auror program because he looks up to you! With everything we put these trainees through, would it hurt just to give him a little encouragement?”

“I’m not a mascot for the DMLE,” Harry said with a scowl. “And he should look for a better role model than someone who spends their days overworked, exhausted and alone.”

“Harry,” Hermione said gently. “It’s been months since you broke up with Liam. Don’t you think it’s time to move on?”

“It’s not like you’re hurting for offers,” Ron added. “You’re Wizarding Britain’s most eligible bachelor! You could have practically any wizard—or witch, if you ever swung that way again—that you wanted.”

“I don’t want just any wizard!” Harry knew there were plenty of men who would happily fall to their knees if he gave them a second look. “I’m tired of people who are only interested in what I can give them. I’d rather be alone than with someone who wants me just for my name, or my connections, or worse—fodder for their tell-all book.”

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione laid her hand on Harry’s wrist. “There’s someone out there for you. You’ll see.”

Ron picked at the bits of chicken and swirled them around in the yoghurt sauce. “You’re just having a run of bad luck. Maybe you should switch things up for a bit; try a different type.”

Harry frowned. “I don’t have a type. I welcome all offenders.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Ron started ticking off the list of paramours on his fingers. “Liam, Jake, William, Brendan, Thomas, Geoffrey. Thomas again. All of them tall and poncey blonds. Ring a bell?”

Harry sighed. “Too late. Considering I just had sex with Malfoy.”

Ron put down his fork and pushed away his plate. “Well then.”

Harry removed his glasses and scrubbed his face. “I’ve been taking dance lessons from him for the past week. When I saw him again, I thought he was the same arrogant prat we knew in school. But he’s changed. I mean, he got a job at a Muggle Uni, goes to Muggle clubs, has Muggle friends, and travels halfway around the world to see Muggle things. Don’t get me wrong; he’s still infuriating and infuriatingly gorgeous. But he sees me for _me_. I haven’t gotten that from anyone else since Ginny.”

Ron and Hermione were silent. Harry brushed back his hair and replaced his glasses. “You don’t seem very surprised.”

“Your waltz with Lavinia Shacklebolt was the topic of conversation around the tea cart for days,” Ron confessed. “And you know Blaise. He _had_ to let everyone know he was helping you out. Once we found out that Malfoy was going to be your teacher—well, there’s a pool going around the office, to be honest.”

Harry didn’t want to know the details of what that pool entailed.

“So how was it? And please spare me the bloody details.”

“Fucking brilliant,” Harry admitted with a sigh. He turned towards Hermione. “Hermione? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

Hermione pinked. “Well, I wasn’t sure things with you and Draco would go as far as it did. But I knew from Ron that you had started those lessons. And although I probably would have been opposed to the idea of a relationship several months ago, I’m willing to withhold judgment, at least for now.”

Ron’s appetite made a spectacular comeback as he scooped up a forkful of chicken with basmati rice. “Hermione’s been working with Malfoy’s lawyers,” he said with his mouth full.

“Just recently,” Hermione added quickly, feeling guilty upon seeing Harry’s astonished stare. “Draco’s looking to offload the Manor. Donate it, really.”

“Something about setting it up as a Muggle visitor’s center and museum,” Ron added.

 _Malfoy was giving up the Manor?_ “And how did you get involved?” Harry asked Hermione, ignoring the fact that his voice just raised an octave in pitch.

“His lawyers needed the Ministry’s input. With the centuries of Dark Magic imbued in that place, can you imagine what would happen if something were to be accidentally triggered? The spell damage alone would be bad enough, but there’s also the real potential for violating the International Statute of Secrecy. I’m looking into the cost of such a project, not to mention Malfoy’s or the Ministry’s liability if something bad were to occur.”

“That makes sense,” Harry said slowly. “But for you to be involved. Of all people—”

“That was my reaction too, at first,” Hermione said gently. Ron came over and placed an arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into the safety of his embrace. “But once I thought about it, I realized that this was something that I _wanted_ to do. The Manor has such a dark and terrible past. The idea that an embodiment of prejudice and hate could be transformed into something inclusive and beautiful—well, it’s therapeutic, in a way. It’s a reminder that good things still happen in the world.” She patted her belly subconsciously. “That we all have the ability to change.”

Harry exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. It _was_ a generous and symbolic act. He should be happy that Malfoy was attempting to make amends and move on. He just wished that the thought of Draco cutting off yet another connection to England didn’t leave him feeling even more lonely inside.

“So what next, then?” Ron asked. “Will it be a table for four the next time we eat?”

“Be a little difficult,” Harry said flatly. “Considering he’s back in Paris.”

Hermione murmured her sympathy. Even Ron put down his fork upon seeing Harry’s forlorn expression.

Ron cleared his throat. “You know, Blaise mentioned that several members of the Nordic Quidditch team are going to be at the Muggle Acceptance and Integration Dance. Olaf Andersen’s always going on about how he thinks you’re incredibly fit. Maybe you can show him some of those fancy moves you learned last week?”

“Thanks, Ron. I’ll think about it.”

Harry knew he wouldn’t. His life was complicated enough with one pale and arrogant blond in it.

 

**.~ ⚜~.**

Three hours after the corks first popped, the champagne still fizzed. Harry watched as the Prime Minister pick up a flute filled with crisp, pale liquid, her lips wet and her nostrils flaring from the wine’s bready, limestone scent. To see the delight sparkle in her eyes as she savoured its subtleties was a reminder that magic and pleasure could often be found in the simplest of things.

The Minister’s hazel eyes faded to grey, cocoa-coloured skin turning a milky white as the memory of Malfoy’s own excitement at rediscovering the world brought a pang to Harry’s chest. At times, the emptiness which he felt from Draco’s absence made him reconsider whether it was worth getting together with the gorgeous git. After all, it was harder to miss something, when you never knew what you had to lose to begin with.

“Be back in a bit.”

Hermione gave him a fond look. “Still trying to escape the crush of your admirers?”

“If your goal was to avoid any more unwanted attention, those lessons with Malfoy may have done you more harm than good,” Ron added. “It was better when you were trodding all over their feet. After the way you danced with Lavinia tonight, they’ve been queuing up for the chance.” He looked up. _“Merlin’s balls,”_ he exclaimed, “here comes another one now!”

Harry turned. His heart stopped as he caught a glimpse of the blond hair and smooth, porcelain skin. But as the man drew closer, Harry’s hope sank. His admirer was tall and lithe, but everything else was off—his hair too golden, jaw too squared, and eyes too blue.

“Told you,” Ron said smugly, even though his voice held a trace of awe. _“Bloody Olaf Andersen!"_

“Harry.” As Olaf’s gaze lingered over Harry’s broad back and well-muscled arse, there was no mistaking his interested gleam. “I see that your work with the British Aurors has kept you in fantastic shape.” He ran his finger along Harry’s arm and gave it an appraising squeeze. “Nice. I would love to tempt you with a friendly game of Quidditch in the off-season. Check out how all that famous speed and power looks like as it’s straddling a broom.”

Ron choked on his drink as Harry’s face flushed a beet red. “You of all people should know that most brooms respond better with polish and finesse.”

“Ah, but there are also times they need a good and thorough stripping-down.” Olaf leaned closer. “How about a dance, Harry? Let me show you that this Chaser knows more than one way to score.”

Harry rolled his eyes; he was about to tell Olaf where exactly he could stick his broom and groan-inducing puns when the sight of Romilda Vane weaving her way excitedly towards their group made him switch gears.

“Alright, let’s dance,” he agreed. There was a moment of awkwardness as both Harry and Olaf tried to take the lead, their calloused fingers fighting for purchase against the planes of each other’s backs. “Ugh, fine. You lead,” Harry hissed as Olaf gave him a cocky grin. “Just—try not to attract more attention than we need to.”

“Why should we avoid the attention? We’re both attractive and famous. The public wants to know.” Olaf flashed a thousand-watt smile as he led Harry past the staff of _Rumours!_

Harry tried to hide his scowl. Olaf was as famous for his eight-pack as he was for his role in the Björn Blizzard, and a recurrent centrefold as seen in _Starfish and Stick_ and _Broomsticks Up!_ to boot. A month ago, Harry would have been flattered by the Swede’s attentions. Even if he couldn’t get past Olaf’s massive ego, he could have capped off the night with a brilliant shag.

But now, the way in which their bodies slotted together as they turned just felt wrong. They were too similar—aggressive and impatient, their movements lacking any compromise. Their steps were well-timed, and the components in place, but the entire thing lacked an effortless grace.

Not to mention the growing issue with Olaf’s hands. “My arse is not a bloody Quaffle!” Harry gritted through his teeth.

“Come now, Harry. There’s no need to play hard to get. After all, your exploits are quite legendary.” Olaf winked. “And I’m not just talking about the ones in the history books.” Harry nearly fell forward as the Swede leered, his thick fingers sliding inches away from Harry’s bludgers...

“Potter. May I have a word?” Despite his polite demeanour, there was no mistaking the coolness in Blaise’s tone. “Pardon the interruption, Andersen. Ministry business, I’m afraid.” Blaise slid into Harry’s arms with the enviable smoothness of a man who was born to dance. “Ta.” Blaise batted his eyelashes at the befuddled Chaser as Harry swept them away.

“They neglected to tell me when I accepted this position that my duties would involve rescuing you. It’s become somewhat of a habit, of late,” Blaise remarked as they fell into a progressive step. “And you’re welcome, by the way.”

Harry gave Blaise a look. “I had a pretty good handle on him.”

“Appeared the other way around, to be honest,” Blaise said wryly. “Olaf was acting as if the playbook for the English National Quidditch team was hidden somewhere in the depths of your arse.”

“Haha.” Harry completed the Box Step, then grinned mischievously as he slid his back leg under Blaise’s knee and lowered the other man into a dip.

 _“Salazar,_ Potter,” Blaise said, his eyes going dark and wide. “Keep that up, and I may have to reconsider our ‘Friends with Benefits’ clause a little more closely.”

Harry laughed, twirling Blaise around and then dipping him once more. “I guess I have you to thank then, seeing as you set up my lessons with Draco.”

 _“Hmmm._ Your dancing skills are now more than adequate _and_ the two of you lived to tell about it. Will wonders never cease?”

Harry looked down pointedly. “You know, there’s still enough time to tread on those lovely shoes you’re so passionate about.”

“A subtle dig combined with a thinly-veiled threat? How very Slytherin of you, Harry. If I didn’t know better, I would think that you were trying to turn me on.” As they waltzed past the press area, Blaise gave Harry’s arm a teasing caress. “See, two can play at that game,” he said with a wink.

The playful, yet tender touch reminded Harry of Draco. “You know,” he said, his voice catching. “It wasn’t all that bad. The lessons, I mean.”

Blaise remained silent, although he gave Harry an arch look.

“And Draco wasn’t either. I mean, after we both got over the initial shock. But you’re right. He has changed. And the times that we hung out were—well, it was _nice.”_

And how Harry missed those times. He missed the obvious things, like Draco’s haughty arrogance and prickly temperament, and his pale beauty and sensual grace. He missed the subtle things, like the way in which those grey eyes would soften when he didn’t think Harry was watching him, their expression sweet and vulnerable and full of hope. He missed the way Draco would tease his lower lip, worrying it as he mulled over the best way he could get Harry to learn the steps of the dance, or when he was spelling Harry’s clothes to get the perfect fit. And he missed the way he felt in Draco’s arms—the way they danced, the way they fought, the way they fucked, their reactions to one another hot and visceral and always so very, very real.

Harry could almost smell Draco’s scent as he gave into the memories. His eyes fluttered closed. He wondered who Draco was holding in his arms. Who was lucky enough to inhale those crisp, bright notes of citrus mixed with headiness of the earth, to feel the softness of his skin, and taste the sweetness of his breath.

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. “How is Draco doing, by the way?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself,” a familiar voice drawled.

Harry spun around, nearly dropping Blaise, who stumbled into Harry with an indelicate _Ooomph_. The music faded into the background, the gentle notes replaced by hushed whispers and growing murmurs as the number of guests around them began to swell.

Draco strode into Harry’s line of vision. He was even more gorgeous than Harry remembered, the fine strands of his white-blond hair brushed back so they showcased the sharpness of his cheeks, and his lean lines showcased to perfection in a blue satin waistcoat and sophisticated charcoal suit. Draco quirked a brow; despite his casual posture and perfect drawl, Harry caught the flash of hesitation in those stormy eyes.

“About time, Draco,” Blaise muttered, stepping aside. He straightened himself and brushed off an invisible speck of dirt from the edge of his notched lapel. “Well, it looks as if I’ve done my good deed for the day. Just a friendly reminder to you both: I’m incredibly partial to Krug _Clos d’Ambonnay.”_

“I’ll send over an entire case,” Draco replied, not taking his eyes off Harry.

Blaise nodded and winked, leaving them with an amused chuckle before swanning off. Harry hadn’t moved from where he stood. His mouth was dry and his heart raced, feeling as if it would explode from his chest.

“You came back.”

“Someone told me there was something in England worth staying for.” Draco took a step forward. The aching notes of the violins played against the bottom of the cellos as the opening bars of _Lippen Schweigen_ began to play. “I realized they were right.”

Harry’s eyes flew open at the familiar tune. Draco smiled softly. “There are occasionally some benefits to having Blaise as a friend.” The crowd edged closer, many of the couples reduced to swaying back and forth in an effort to remain within earshot.

“I’m sorry I left,” Draco breathed, taking Harry’s hand in his own. He pulled Harry towards him as they fell into the steps of the waltz. “But sometimes life is like a Fallaway; occasionally, you have to take a step back, before you can turn around and move ahead.” He inched closer, his hips slotting perfectly against Harry’s own. “I missed you,” he whispered.

They moved in tandem, their torsos arching perfectly as their legs skimmed along to the music and their hips swung and swayed. “And when you move ahead, Draco. Where do you see it taking you?”

Draco stared at Harry’s face. His eyes slid down the line of Harry’s jaw, and lingered near the corner of Harry’s parted mouth. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I know that life has a way of making even the most carefully crafted plans go balls up. But I do know that wherever and whatever it is, I want it to be with you.” Harry felt his heart leap, the tug in his gut pulling him closer and closer as Draco began to sing: 

> _At each step of the waltz,_  
>  _my soul joins in the dance,_  
>  _my eager heart leaps,_  
>  _knocks, and pounds_

They swirled around the floor, the music surging as the thudding of Harry’s heart matched Draco’s own. Harry was aware of the hundreds of eyes glued to his every move, but instead of shrinking away from it, he felt the rapture blooming in his chest, stronger and more beautiful than ever before.  

> _be mine, be mine!_  
>  _And my lips say no word,_  
>  _yet still it echoes on and on._

Somewhere, Harry registered the din. The loud pops of the photographer’s bulbs, the frantic scratching of the quills, the smattering of outraged gasps and an overwhelming number of romantic sighs.

“Mr Malfoy! Does your appearance at the Muggles Acceptance and Integration Dance mean that you now support the idea of peaceful co-existence and Muggle rights?”

“Mr Potter! Has your former rivalry with Mr Malfoy turned into something else? Inquiring minds want to know!”

“Mr Malfoy—!”

“Mr Potter!”

Harry leaned in. Draco’s eyes were bright and unusually shiny, as their chests rose and lowered in sync with each bated breath.

“Why don’t we really give them something to talk about?” Harry murmured, his mouth inches away from Draco’s lips.

“I always knew you were a man of action and little words.”

Harry heard the tremor in Draco’s voice. “Scared, Malfoy?” he whispered.

Draco leaned into Harry’s warmth. “Terrified.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Harry lowered his head, his heart singing as he felt the wet and swollen flesh under his mouth. The noise level grew to a veritable shout, but all Harry could think about was how sweet Draco tasted, the soft whimper which heated his blood as Draco leaned and returned his kiss.

The noise in the room elevated to a roar. Remembering where they were, Draco reluctantly took a step back. He inclined his head towards the group of owls that were now flying pell-mell towards the windows, surging towards the skies with the night’s biggest scoop.

“I believe we’ve just made the headlines of tomorrow’s news.”

“Well, let’s give them one hell of a story to write about then, shall we?” Harry teased. Draco partnered him perfectly as they danced. Harry gloried in the music and its meaning, their hips moulded together, legs flying, torsos regal, and hearts beating as one. Harry was joyous, not caring that his happiness was visible for everyone to see. In that very moment, he knew what it mean to soar; with Draco by his side, he knew what it meant to feel alive and supported and free. 

> _Every hand-clasp_  
>  _shows it clearly_  
>  _now I know_  
>  _it’s so, it’s so,_  
>  _you love me!_

 

**⚜. ~Epilogue~.⚜**

“Come now, Potter. Stop faffing about.”

Harry grunted. After seven years of field work, his body was in peak shape, yet the altitude and the four thousand foot ascent took its toll. His lungs burned and his calves cramped, and to make things worse, Malfoy was standing two hundred feet ahead of him, tapping his foot impatiently and looking barely winded.

 _“Faffing about._ Easy to say when you’re not the one being used as a pack mule.” Harry threw his backpack on the ground. It landed with a heavy thump, complete with the clinking of their crampons and piolets.

“Seriously, you didn’t think of shrinking them?” Draco asked.

Harry opened his mouth, a retort ready on his lips when he was stunned into silence by their surroundings. The mid-afternoon sun reflected off the ice-capped outcroppings, the rugged terrain shimmering in greys and purples and gold. The waters of the lake were a deep blue, surrounded by a smattering of windswept trees and the tall, dried grasses of the steppes.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Draco remarked as Harry sat beside him. They looked out over the sweeping vista, the quiet broken by the sonorous call of the Chucao Tapaculo and the sounds of their slowing breaths.

“It is,” Harry admitted. “Beautiful enough that it was worth bushwacking through the peaty bogs and the last scramble up that scree.”

“See over there? You can just catch a glimpse of the Beagle Channel and Isla Grande de Tierra del Fuego. That’s where we’re heading tomorrow. Between the kayaking and checking up on the Magellanic Penguin colony at Isla Martillo, we’ll have completed all twenty things on our to-do list.”

“More like twenty-one out of twenty,” Harry reminded him as Draco sniggered. “I can’t believe you threw the Tango in there.”

“Come now,” Draco said appeasingly. “You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it.” He pressed closer; despite the layers of clothing and the stickiness of their sweat, Harry’s cock still managed to respond to Draco’s suggestive roll of his hips.

Harry laughed, turning towards Draco and giving him a quick kiss. He pulled his Omnioculars out from the backpack; with the assistance of a powerful magnifying charm, he was able to make out the large groups of Penguins that called Isla Martillo their home. “It sure looks like there’s a lot of them,” he said as he watched them waddle about. He handed Draco the Omnioculars. “These are the ones that they listed as threatened?”

Draco nodded. He trained the Omnioculars in the direction of the sea; Harry watched as Draco’s lips moved below the brassy curves. “There may be a lot in actual numbers, but many of the colonies have been dwindling at an alarming rate. The people here have to make a living, but most of their economy is based petroleum extraction and fishing. The Magellanic Penguins’ breeding colonies are terribly susceptible to oil spills. And the changing weather patterns and overfishing has affected the numbers and locales of fish. It’s gotten to the point where the penguins have to swim another fifty miles for their food source, which increases the chance of starvation for them and their brood.”

Harry frowned. “So maybe you can work to move the breeding colonies closer to the food source?”

Draco shook his head. “We've tried. Unfortunately, it puts the penguins on private and unprotected lands.”

“Public education, then.”

“Working on that too. Ecotourism is both a good and bad thing. It brings with it an awareness and appreciation of nature’s beauty, but it also makes it more difficult to maintain pristine quality of land. Anyway, that’s why the Foundation is helping fund the Punta Tombo MPA. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.

“There’s another reason I’m partial to Magellanic Penguins,” Draco added as he handed Harry back the omnioculars. “Did you know they mate for life? No matter what happens, the male returns to his burrow every year and waits, with the hope of reconnecting with his partner. Even in a colony numbering in the hundreds of thousands, his mate will recognise him, just by the sound of his call.”

Draco reached out and held Harry’s hand. His finger traced over the band of gold which adorned Harry’s his ring finger, the metal bright and unblemished in the Southern April sun. Draco knew that whatever the situation, he would recognise Harry anywhere. Harry’s strength and goodness had always called out to him, even after all these years.

“I still can’t believe they actually gave you a month off.”

“They owe it to me. Owe a lot more, actually. Plus, I made it a condition of my acceptance; it would be terrible to deny the new Head Auror his honeymoon.”

 _“Mmmm,”_ Draco murmured, his voice dropping into a sultry purr. “I’ve been a very bad boy, Mr Head Auror. I’ve dragged my new husband kicking and screaming to the ends of the earth, and proceeded to subject him to extreme temperatures and all sorts of physical labour.” He stuck out his arse. “I think I need to be punished.”

“Incorrigible prat,” Harry said fondly, giving the aforementioned arse a loving smack. “And the person I seem to remember screaming last night was you.”

Draco laughed. “I blame those bloody, charmed handcuffs. I had no idea you were bringing your work with you, by the way.”

The smile slid from Harry’s face. “I’m going to be busy, Draco,” he said slowly. “Busier, at any rate.”

“As will I. Even when I finish working with the Yaghans and the government of the Chubut Province, there’s still so many places in the world that could use the Foundation’s help. But at the end of the day, whatever difficulties or victories it may bring, it’s nice to have someone to share it with.” He pulled out a tiny, padded box from the side pocket of his khakis and unshrank it. Two rounded glasses and a couple of bottles floated in the air in front of them.

Harry watched as the chalices filled, first with the reddish-brown, sparkling soda, and the darker, syrupy Fernet, followed by a bit of sugar. The liquid bubbled and fizzed; Draco took out his wand and cast a cooling charm as the glasses started to fog, the condensation collecting along the smooth sides as they chilled in the dwindling sun.

 _“Salud,”_ Draco toasted. “To unusual pairings and acquired tastes.”

“To new adventures and the spice of life.” Harry took a sip. Perhaps it was the mountain air, or the smell of the surrounding grass, but he was able to taste beyond the drink’s initial bitterness, and appreciate its more complex flavours and aroma. It was the herbal spiciness of yellow saffron and red cinchona bark, tempered with the hint of mint, cinnamon and gentian root. A sweeter and subtler chamomile and aloe brought up the rear, mellowing the complicated drink into something oddly satisfying and unique. It was a combination of things which on paper shouldn’t have worked, but pulled the best from each that made it like no other.

Harry stared at his husband. The sun began to dip below the highest peak, shading the angles of Draco’s face in its shadows. “Do you miss it at all? The Manor?”

Draco shrugged. Everything within the confines of the Manor walls had been scrubbed clean, rid of as much Dark Magic as possible. “Everything I need from the Manor is here,” he said, pointing to his head and heart. “I’ve had two years to get used to the idea—nearly seven, if you really think about it. I’m glad it’s become such a popular attraction for the people of Wiltshire; the Muggles have always been fascinated by English prodigy houses, and with all the magical activity in the area, any remnants of its dark past can be chalked up to its charm.” He looked at Harry, grey eyes filled with concern. “How about you? Are you having second thoughts about Grimmauld Place?”

“No.” Harry gripped Draco’s hand tightly; when the answer had slipped out of his mouth so easily, he knew in his heart that it was true. “The only attachment I had there was my connection to Sirius. You taught me that I didn’t need a house for that.” Harry sighed as a breeze blew, causing Draco’s fine hairs to brush against and tickle his cheek. “Sirius would have been happy for us—would have wanted us to let go of the dark things in our past, and to make a new beginning for ourselves.” Harry put his arm around Draco; Draco leaned in, breathing in Harry’s warmth, and his comfortable, familiar scent.

A strong and persistent hum filled the air. A dark shadow slanted across them, followed closely by a second. Harry and Draco looked up, their eyes widening as a pair of Andean Condors flew overhead, their broad wings nearly motionless as they soared majestically against the jagged peaks. They pushed each other like a pair of Seekers, their movements breath-taking and balletic, before plunging downwards, two dancers ensconced in nature’s beautiful waltz. Harry gripped Draco’s hand, their heads moving closer in synchrony as their lips met for a kiss.

Sometimes life is like a dance. It can be sweet and slow, or aggressive and fast, and can take you backwards and forwards. It can be sad or joyous, or danced alone or with others. But for Harry, dancing was magical. Life was magical.

And he found it to be particularly beautiful when he had the perfect partner to share it with.

  _ **~Fin~**_

**Author's Note:**

> * A heartfelt thanks goes out to the sweet and amazing [**alias-sqbr**](http://alias-sqbr.tumblr.com/), who donated her time and talents as part of the Fandom Trumps Hate auctions. The proceeds from her work were donated to _The Nature Conservancy_.  
>  * Thanks also to the fabulous [**chenria**](http://chenria.tumblr.com/), who—despite her hectic schedule—freely gave her time and skills to create the gorgeous lineart _and_ ensured that it was completed in time for the fest.  
>  These artists are not only incredibly talented, but also two of the nicest people I've ever had the pleasure of working with. I appreciate you both so much!<33  
>  
> 
> There were so many incredible versions of Draco and Harry's last waltz to choose from. In the end, I linked the versions which (for me) best exemplified the [**instrumental-only feel of the waltz, but with lyrics**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x5KefBimuDg) (until 2:53); and one which held true to the intimacy of the [**original operatic duet**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJL7r6Xa7Jk).
> 
>  **Lippen Schweigen (Love Unspoken)** from _Die lustige Witwe (The Merry Widow)_ Translation: [**Simonkeenlyside.info**](http://www.simonkeenlyside.info/index.php/recordings/cd-dvd-info-reviews/my-heart-alonedein-ist-mein-ganzes-herz-cd-2007/text-and-translation-for-track-06-lippen-schweigen-s-flustern-geigen-from-die-lustige-witwe-the-merry-widow-by-lehar/)  
>  **Danilo:**  
>  Lips are silent,  
> violins whisper:  
> Love me!  
> Every step  
> says: please  
> love me!  
> Every hand-clasp  
> shows it clearly.  
> Now I know, it’s so, it’s so,  
> you love me!
> 
>  **Hanna:**  
>  At each step of the waltz,  
> my soul joins in the dance,  
> my eager heart leaps,  
> knocks, and pounds:  
> be mine, be mine!  
> And my lips say no word,  
> yet still it echoes on and on:  
> I love you, oh, so much,  
> I love you!
> 
>  **Hanna and Danilo:**  
>  Every hand-clasp  
> shows it clearly,  
> now I know  
> it’s so, it’s so,  
> you love me!
> 
>  
> 
> *Come say "hi" on [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/nerdherderette)


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